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ALAMANCE; 



OR, 



THE GREAT AND FIIAL EXPERIMENT. 



One good deed, dying tongueleaa, 
Slaughters a thousand waiting on that. 

Winter's Tale. 



HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
82 CLIFF STREET, NEW YORK. 

184 7. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
eight hundred and forty-seven, by 

Harper & Brothers, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District 
of New York. 



TO 






JAMES IREDELL, ESQ, 



THIS WORK, 

THE FIRST FRUITS OF MY PEN, 

ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 

WIT*H A HOPELESS WISH THAT IT MAY RENDER 

THE NAME OF SO GOOD A MAN 

A3 IMMORTAL A3 IT DESERVES TO BE. 



TODR FRIEND, 

THE AUTHOR. 



DEDICATION THE SECOND. 



TO 



Thy name, sweet friend, should also grace 
This book, whose heroine thou art, 

And take in fame's proud fane the place 
It long has held within my heart, 

The brightest, dearest, could I see 
That this poor offering of mine 

Would, by the world's applause, e'er be 
For such a name a proper shrine. 

There may, perchance, however, fall 
Upon the book and on the scribe 

Oblivion's unwelcome pall, 
Or censure of a heardess tribe; 

And, therefore, I will brave alone 
The dangers of this untried sea. 

The losses all shall be my own — 
The glories I will share with thee! 



New York, Sept. 184X 



PREFACE 



HORACE LOCKWITTER, OF NEW YORK. 



"Once on a time" it was ray fortune to* pass through that remote and unex- 
plored part of our country designated on the maps as the State of North Carolina. 
To my great surprise, I found that the inhabitants were neither Cannibals, Sala- 

% manders, nor Fire-eaters, nor even Pagans, though there was among them a con- 
siderable sprinkling of Jews. Men and women generally dressed after the Euro- 
pean fashion, lived in houses with chimneys, and ale three times a-day, though at 
very unusual hours — breakfast, for instance, was served up at seven in the morn- 
ing, dinner at about one, poit meridian, and supper at sundown — but, bating this 
barbarous custom, and the still mote barbarous habit of going to bed at ten o'clock 
at night, I became satisfied that the better portion of the inhabitants might be 
considered as a Christian, civilized people. That class of the natives who live 
naked in the woods, subsisting on acorns, raw snails, and wild onions, I did not 
see, nor could I ascertain their exact locality. Those with whom I mingled were 
a plain, unfrizzled people, sadly addicted to sobriety aim matrimony, and greatly 
-deficient in the art of lying, and other fashionable accomplishments and amuse- 
ments. It was the fashion among the men to shave their faces, and among the 
women to preserve the original forms bestowed on them by Nature ; and I was 
credibly informed that there were many idolatrous worshippers of those fabulous 
deities. Love and Friendship, whose temples still exist in considerable numbers. 
True, missionaries are among them, doing all they can to eradicate the seeds of 
this noxious superstition, especially among the young and enlightened; but the 
common people still cling, with singular tenacity, to the antiquated notions of their 
fathers. So much for the inhabitants. Of the face of the country, its locality, 
climate, and productions, I regret that I did not take fuller notes, and cannot but 
hope that some enterprising traveller will yet explore those unknown regions, and 
give the world the benefit of his investigations and discoveries. The State (as it 
is in compliment called) is situated somewhere between the Arctic Ocean and 
Cape Horn, and the climate is a medium between that of Siberia and Equador. 
The principal productions of the soil are tar (so called from Tar River, on which 

; it grows), tobacco, and Indian maize. The largest cities are those of Henderson 
(named after General Pinckney Henderson, of Texas), Ashboro', and Buncombe; 
and the only seaport town is that called Nag'? Head, on account of its having bVen 
built in a semicircle rguud the bay, into which are emptied the waters of the Yad- 
kin. This information, scant as it is, exhausts my memoranda in regard to the 
•country and people at larye. , 



Vi PREFACE. 

! It was my luck, good or bad, to be delayed several,, days at a very neat and 
pleasant village, the shady serenity and repose of which forcibly reminded me of 
those South Sea Islands, in regard to which so many enchantftig stories have re- 
cently been written. My landlord, to whom I herehy make my acknowledgments 
for his kindness and liberality, formally introduced me to all of his boarders, and 
thus I became acquainted with — an attorney at law, and a gentleman~ot' some 'local 
celebrity as a writer. I was informed that this last-named gentleman was writing 
a book, and it at once occurred to me that he had made a happy hit. A North 
Carolina book ! What a gem for the curious in literature ! I supposed, of course, 
that it was a fiction, and I was enraptured at the idea. All the rest of the habit- 
able and uninhabitable globe has been explored : the character, inhabitants, and 
manners of all other parts are familiar even to our school-boys. But here, thought 
I, in this fabulous country — here, in this, the only dark corner of the earth — is a 
proper scene for the expatiations of genius, and especially French genius. Here 
can be located wizards, enchanters, hippogriffs, wild giants, swarthy dwarfs, appa- 
ritions, prodigies, wandering Jews, mysteries, murders, rapes, and rapine. Here is 
the place to lay the scene ; here all the enginery of a popular fiction-writer's brain 
may be planted. Hence may stalk forth to astonish, delight, and electrify the 
world, frightful phantoms, blood-reeking assassins, incarnate devils, celestial wan- 
tons, spiritual rowdies, angelic rogues, philanthropic villains, holy martyrs, who 
love other men's wives, chaste vestals, who consume with immortal ardour for other 
women's husbands, charitable fiends, satyrs, wood-nymphs, and dragons, with all 
their accompaniments of cross-purposes, horrible rencontres, glorious suicides, 
heroic murders, magnanimous robberies, blood, thunder, and earthquakes ! Hap- 
py man ! fortunate genius ! You have a world of your own — a glorious theatre 
for an infernal tragedy. fcSo thinking, I called one morning at the office of the at- 
torney, and found him listening, with apparent interest, to the story of an old man 
who had embarked in a suit to recover three dollars and thirty-seven cents out of 
an insolvent debtor ! Seven times the old gentleman took his leave, and seven 
ti me s he returned with new instructions about his suit, and an increased thickness 
; of tongue. At last, when tolerably drunk, after many and oft-repeated instruc- 
tions to his counsel to be vigilant and ferocious, he took an affectionate and final 
leave. The next instant a host of boys lounged in and sat an hour, and these 
were succeeded by a very voluble gentleman, who, fearing, as he alleged, that his 
friend might be alone and suffering in solitude, had come down to cheer him up. 
In the afternoon I called again, and though I heard voices in the room I could not 
distinguish a single object in it. The floor w as slippery with spittle, and the 
Y~smoke from the pipes of a dozen furious village politicians was so thick that it really 
\ seemed to me I could feel it. Having settled the affairs of the nation, these em- 
bryo statesmen gave way at last to several octogenarians, who were still telling 
anecdotes of their youth long after my friend's hopes of even a cold supper had 
/become utterly desperate. When I returned at night I more than ever felt for^ 
< the misfortunes of the village writer. He was seated by his table with anew pen 
in his hand, a quire of clean paper before him, looking with an abstracted and 
melancholy face at two gentlemen who were silently lounging, much at their ease, 
in one corner of the room, each puffing a segar Determined to outsit ihese 
gentry, I remained till half after one, and left them in a most lively and wakeful 
lmmouiy 



PREFACE. vii 

Day after day I met with the like state of things at the attorney's office, till at '*""" 
ast I was fortunate enough to find him alone. I at once broached the subject 
that had been dwelling on my mind, and " on that hint he spake." I can never 
forget his looks, or his words either, as he launched off into a most pathetic ac- 
count, of the miseries of his situation, and an eloquent philippic against bores. 
He concluded by declaring that he had given up in despair, for it was his destiny \s^ 
to be bored. ."" What a fate ! To have a gimblet boring against each rib every 
hour of the day, would be delicious titillation compared with the agonies of a 
moral augerization." I agreed with him that an author, among the hapless and 
accursed race of whom he spoke, was in a worse condition than the man who lies 
down to sleep among the spiders, tarantulas, centipedes, chigoes, and musquitoes 
that swarm in countless thousands about every blade of grass and every leaf and 
flower in the valley of the Rio Grande : but still, I suggested, he might find time 
for the production of a fiction of the kind I alluded to. /He astonished me by de- 
claring that he should "never defile his pen in the composition of stuff to feed the 
morbid appetites of a delirious public." J Such were his words, and my astonish {/ 
ment became disgust when he intimated his dislike to the writing of a history of 
North Carolina, which he might fill with all sorts of portents, prodigies, and mar- 
vellous adventures. " Notwithstanding the fuss made about it by her literati," 
said he, "the history of my native and dear old State would be, indeed, an 'un- 
varnished tale,' and a very brief one, too, for all the most stirring and delightful 
incidents are of too little general interest to suit the comprehensive purpose of 
history. In the broad scope of Clio's eye, there is little in Carolina that rises to 
the level of her vision, but there is a glorious field for another muse. There have 
been men here who only wanted a theatre to render them world-renowned ; and 
these men, and the remarkable local incidents in which our annals abound, need 
only the pen, of a .Scott to render them as famous as the similar men and events 
in Scottish story."/ Hereupon my friend, who had become confidential, read me 
portions of his work, which was a sort of book of memoirs, and from the inequal- 
ities in the style of which the writer's varying humours and constant interruptions 
and afflictions were clearly discernible, and I even imagined that I could tell where 
-a sentence had been commenced early in the morning, with a clear head and a 
lively fancy, and finished late at night, with a foggy brain and jaded body. Still 
I advised the publication of the book, and, after a vast deal of hesitation, the au- 
thor concluded to follow my counsel. " I think I could write something," said he, 
" for I have loved my pen from boyhood, andTTTa ve "Materials ; I want opportu-f 
nity, however, and if this undertaking succeeds, I will make opportunity. Now. i 
I have a regular calling of a different character, and my interviews with the musesf 
are like the devotions of a heathen in a Christian land — brief and secret. I am 
bored, watched, and suspected of some outlandish and pagan practice; but once » 
let me be afloat as an author, and name and vocation will be more respected." 

("And I," replied ourself, "will write your preface, and save your modesty by 
speaking myself of the disadvantages under which 'you laboured. What else shall 
I say ? Any thing ad captandum V " No, sir." he exclaimed, " No, sir, not a 
word : if my book has merits somebody will find them out; if it has none let it i 
sink. You, however, may say this much : — Say to the North Carolinians., that I i 
have ever loved my native State as tenderly, perhaps, as those sons upon whom 
this partial mother has more freely bestowed her smiles and her caresses • that, 



vtfi PREFACE. 

like the bard of Ayr, filled with her traditions, and dwelling with fervent delight 
on her glorious recollections, I have, even from a child, hoped that I, in honour of 
this good old mother, 

' Some usefu' plan or book might make, 
Or sing a sang at least.' 

Say to them, these Carolinians, that they ought to reward me, if only for my in- 
tentions — but whether they do or not I shall not die of a broken heart. Say to 
my friends, that if my book is a failure, they will praise and patronize me the 
more, and tell the public generally to ' consult my title-page.' " 

I thought to myself that a man's friends were apt to be kind in proportion to 
his success ; but remembering that the author was a simple-hearted Carolinian, I 
only asked him what more I should say. He earnestly requested me to disclaim, 
for him any intention of painting or hitting at the characters of any of his cotem- 
poraries, and to say that his book, its incidents, and the persons introduced are 
purely historical, and belong to a by-gone age. "In a word," he concluded, "I 
have written for my own amusement and for the gratification of the public. Yet 
some will censure, some ridicule, and some will be offended and talk of slander 
and libel ; and thus a general clamour will be raised by those for whose edification 
I have laboured. If so, let the world wag on — I shall certainly write on. \ I can 
truly say I hate no one and I fear no one, and if any petty soul hates me, he is 
expending his animosity to little purpose, for I shall never feel it or regret it. 
With a conscience void of offence towards all God's creatures, I have 

y A tear for those who love me, . ■ 
And a smile for those who hate.' " J 

Reader ! I have given you a brief sketch of the country in which the follow- 
ing scenes are laid. I have feebly depicted the difficulties with which the author 
contended, and pourtrayed faintly his good intentions. The book is before you, 
and though it treats not of Lapland witches, nor of gibbering spectres in old 
German castles, and contains not, for your fastidious palate, a savoury dish of un- 
natural and astounding fictions, seasoned with the reeking filth, infamy, and in- 
iquity of St. Giles and the Faubourgs, it may still interest or amuse you for an 
idle hour. Peace be with you all ! 

1 



ALAMANCE. 



CHAPTER I. 

At UMANCE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

On a Dright Sabbath morning in June, 
some three quarters of a century ago. a 
wayfarer, in passing through one of the 
middle counties of North Carolina, came 
to a country church which attracted his 
attention. There was something in the 
appearance of things about the place which 
harmonized with the traveller's feelings, 
and, dismounting and securing his horse 
to the bough of a tree, he concluded to 
wait for the services of the day. The 
more he looked round him, the better was 
he pleased with his resolution ; for the 
church and all about it wore a grave and 
antique air that impressed him much, and 
rendered him curious to see what sort of 
people worshipped there. There were 
two houses, one of which was very large, 
the sober gravity of its faded red contrast- 
ing not unpleasantly with the white sashes 
of its numerous windows. Over each of 
the four doorways there was a small, semi- 
circular shed, supported by arms of paint- 
ed iron that came out, arched akimbo, 
from the walls, and decorated round the 
edges with curiously carved work, about 
which, and on the fretted cornices, swarms 
of wasps were sunning themselves, and 
working on their tiny buildings. The 
steps, which were all of hewn granite, 
were, at the end doors, six or eight feet 
high, owing to the declivities which, from 
near the centre of the church, ran down to 
two small creeks that met a few hundred 
yards north of the edifice. On this side, 
and in the angle of the plateau, or eleva- 
tion, was another and smaller house, with 
a chimney, and surrounded by sycamores. 
From here the eye ranged over an ex- 
tensive, open country, and several farm- 
houses and plantations were in view. The 
other sides were shaded by a few stately 
and venerable oaks, which, at a short dis- 
tance from the house, were merged in 
thick forests of similar growth, in whose 
leafy coverts myriads ol sweet-voiced birds 
were singing. Not far from the church 
was an extensive grave-yard, walled in 
with rock, and entered by an arched gate- 
way, the stone pillars of which were faced 
with plates of blue slate, on which were 
Latin inscriptions in honour of the builder 



of the walls. Hundreds of monuments of 
various kinds, of marble, rock, and brick, 
and of all ages, indicated that this silent 
city was peopled with several generations 
of a large parish or congregation, while 
the devices and inscriptions on the tomb- 
stones, the holly-trees and cedars, the 
green ivy and the beds of flowers, attest- 
ed the taste and piety of the living, and 
their tenderness and affection for the mem- 
ory of the dead, each one of whom must 
have been followed to his last resting-place 
by troops of sorrowing friends. The 
stranger, from the grave-yard, went into 
the church, which, though not dilapidated, 
bore unequivocal signs of age. The low- 
^r part was divided into five compartments 
by three aisles, one of which ran the full 
length of the edifice from east to west, and 
the other two led from it to the two doors 
on the southern side. In the centre of the 
other side was a lofty pulpit of mahogany, 
ascended by a flight of narrow, balustraded 
stairs, and overhung by a sounding-board 
supported by rods from the ceiling, and so 
wrought and painted as to resemble a mass 
of billowy clouds just rising above the 
horizon on a summer evening. Immedi- 
ately in front of the pulpit, and joining it, 
but several feet lower, was the "stand" or 
pulpit of the clerk, and round three sides 
of the building, a little higher than the pul- 
pit proper, ran a gallery with balusters in. 
front. The traveller marked all these 
things with the eye of a virtuoso; and 
wondering, whence in a country like this, 
could come the opulence to build and the 
people to fill such an edifice, he returned 
to the yard, where he met a neatly-dressed 
lad, who at once and strongly excited his 
interest. The boy was quite young, but 
on his face was plainly visible the stamp 
of a bright mind and a good heart, his 
dark, brilliant eyes, gleaming with an ex- 
pression tender, pensive, and intelligent. 

" Don't be afraid of me, my pretty friend," 
said the stranger. " I hope we'll soon get 
better acquainted, and like each other." 

" I am not afraid of you, sir," replied the 
boy; " I am not afraid of any one here; 
but I never saw you before. Do you be- 
long to Alamance ?" 

" Is that IhTname of this congregation ?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" No," said the traveller ; " I came from 



10 



ALAMANCE. 



a distant country, and only stopped here 
to look at the place. But what brought 
you here so early'!" 

"1 always come early," replied the boy ; 
" I like to get here before any one else 
does, to ramble over the grave-yard, and 
sit on the tomb-stones, and think." 

The answer going straight to the trav- 
eller's heart, he and his new acquaintance 
soon became intimate, and sitting down 
on a bench, in the shade of a tree, the 
time flew fast with both until the Alaman- 
cers began to arrive. They came stream- 
ing in by different roads, on foot, on horse- 
back, and in gigs ; the young ladies gen- 
erally dashing up on high- mettled and 
prancing steeds, which they managed with 
grace and ease. There was no noise but 
the /clatter of the horses' hoofs and the 
rattle of the gigs ; no confusion and bus- 
tle ; no loud talking and laughing, nor sim- 
pering and grimacing, and running to and 
fro by the females, to show their flaunt- 
ing dresses, their fluttering ribbons, and 
smirking faces. The traveller noticed 
that, with a quiet but hearty manner, every 
body shook hands with every body else, 
and then the females went into the house, 
the young ones sitting modestly and silent- 
ly in their high-backed pews, while the 
men, gathering in groups under the trees, 
talked over their neighbourhood affairs. 
The traveller noticed also, that in that 
great multitude of every age, from the 
white-headed patriarch of three-score and 
ten to the toddling infant, each one, even 
among the blacks, bore himself with a still 
and hushed gravity, while their looks, with- 
out being austere, wore an expression se- 
date and solemn. He observed also, and 
he marvelled at the fact, that there was 
not one meanly-clad person in the crowd, 
and that even the negroes, of whom there 
were many, were neatly dressed. He no- 
ticed, too, that his youthful friend was a 
great favourite with old and young, and he 
saw whispered questions frequently put to 
him, to which he replied by shaking his 
head. He remained with the boy, and 
each new-comer cordially shook his hand, 
but asked him no questions. 

" Who is that fine-looking old gentle- 
man, who is hitching his horse to the syc- 
amore behind the .church ?" asked the 
stranger. 

" That," replied the boy, " is the Rev. 
Dr. David Caldwell, our minister, sir. He 
is going into the session-house to put on 
lus silk cloak, and it's time to go in. You 
must sit in father's pew, and Til carry you 
to it." 

The stranger entered, following his 
youthful guide, and saw that his face was 
scrutinized by more than one, while his 
bald head seemed to blush during the 
whole of the service, as if conscious that 
it was the grand central object of attraction 



for all the eyes in that crowded audience. 
He knew, however, that the eyes were 
kind, and many of them bright, and he was 
delighted at the edifying silence, attention, 
and decorum that pervaded the assembly. 
He was pleased with the sermon, and still 
more pleased with the singing, the solemn 
harmony of which impressed him more 
than he had ever been before on such an 
occasion. All joined in the song; and, all 
seeming to know the tunes and to have 
melodious voices, a strain, grand, solemn, 
and soul-inspiring swelled through the spa- 
cipus building, subduing in every heart its 
worldly lusts and its selfish passions, and 
lifting it, in devout fervour, above the 
things of time and sense. After the ser- 
mon the congregation were dismissed for 
a short recess, and the traveller, medita- 
ting on what he had heard and seen, was 
following a crowd in the direction of the 
spring, when he was accosted by his ac- 
quaintance of the morning. 

"Mother wants to see you," said the 
boy; and, following him, the stranger came 
to where three persons were sitting on the 
grass, in the shade of a sycamore. One 
of them he at once recognized as the min- 
ister, who, with a smile, said to the boy, 

"Introduce us, Henry, to your friend." 

"I don't know his name," answered 
Henry, looking inquiringly at the traveller. 

" M'Bride, Hector M'Bride, is my name," 
said the stranger; "1 am a sojourner, who 
stopped here to hear a sermon, and an ex- 
cellent one it was." 

"And my name," said the parson, "is 
Caldwell, and I am happy to make your 
acquaintance. Mr. M'Bride, this is my 
friend, Mr. Warden, and that is his lady. 
Your young friend there is their son Hen- 
ry. As the days are long, and your dinner 
may be late, Mrs. Warden thought you 
might be pleased to join us in a snack, in 
which case you will please fall to." 

" 1 thank you, one and all, for your kind- 
ness," replied M'Bride, "and without cer- 
emony, will honour your collation with a 
traveller's appetite." 

" Do you purpose to make any stay at 
Alamance !" asked Warden, as they were 
discussing cold chicken, biscuit, and pies. 
" You must excuse the question, as it is 
not prompted by idle curiosity." 

" 1 readily excuse it," answered M'Bride, 
" and, as far as 1 can, will answer it with 
pleasure. I am. as 1 said, a wayfarer, 
and I have no particular destination in 
view, having, like the knights-errant in 
the old romances, given the reins to my 
horse, and letting him carry ine whither- 
soever his pleasure leads him." 

" Surely," said the parson, '' you are not 
about, to revive that, ancient order— going 
about in quest of adventures,succouring the 
distressed and rescuing imprisoned dam- 
sels. 1 see no helmet, lance, or armour. 



ALAMANCE. 



II 



" I may be said to be seeking tbe same 
ends, 1 ' replied M'Bride, "though not with 
sword, lance, and buckler, for I belong to 
the peace establishment. In short, acci- 
dents and crosses af an early age gave me 
a distaste for business; and, having wan- 
dered about till I hive nearly spent my 
Blender patrimony, I am looking out for a 
place where the schoolmaster is needed. 
When 1 find such a place, if the people suit 
me— I am hard to please — and 1 suit them, 
1 shall bring myself to anchor. Indeed, to 
be plain with you all, though you are 
strangers to me, I have a theory which I 
long to see carried out. We all come into 
the world with ingenuous, innocent, and 
honourable hearts : where do all the selfish 
men and — begging your pardon Mrs. War- 
den — mischievous women come from V 

" We are corrupted by the world," said 
Mrs. Warden. 

'• Exactly," exclaimed the master ; " and 
who corrupts the world? We were all good 
once. The truth is, parents and teachers 
take it for granted that other children will 
be corrupted, and, in self-defence, they 
teach their own to be cunning, selfish, and 
double minded. Now this is a great evil 
under the sun, and I wish to see how far 
the schoolmaster can correct it." 

• " I like your notions," said the parson, 
" and, if you will remain awhile at Ala- 
mance, we'll have some further discourse 
upon these subjects, and perhaps, too, may 
find a location that, will suit you." 

"In which case," said Warden, "I shall 
look for you to be my guest, and trust we 
will be able to make you comfortable." 

The traveller consented to go with War- 
den that night, and saw that the arrange- 
ment gave no little satisfaction to the boy 
Henry, whose admiration he had won, by 
the facility with which he had translated 
the Latin inscriptions at the grave-yard 
gate, and who continued to act as his cic- 
erone, introducing him to various people, 
and showing him all the curiosities about 
the place. When the services for the day 
were concluded, the gravity of the con- 
gregation seemed considerably abated, and 
they went round, taking leave of each oth- 
er, and pressing the parson to go to their 
houses. He had, however, kindly to re- 
fuse all invitations, for he was engaged to 
go with Warden, who, by the way, had to 
wait a long time for his reverend friend, 
as this latter made it a point to attend to 
their horses all maiden ladies who were 
without a beau. It may be mentioned, too, 
by the way, that many of these, who were 
somewhat advanced in years, desired their 
spiritual guide to make known to the se- 
date-looking traveller, that their fathers' 
houses were ever open for the reception 
of strangers. Women's hearts are ever 
kind, and they were moved with affection- 
ate interest when they saw so grave, gen- 



tlemanly, and decent-looking a bachelor 
(as they feared) wandering about, solitary 
and alone, without a companion to share 
his sorrows and heighten his joys. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF ALAMANCE CONTINUED 
BV THE PARSON. 

The Rev. Dr. Caldwell and Hector 
M'Bride sat up late at Warden's, smoking 
their pipes and discussing various matters. 
Each one displayed much learning and 
acuteness, and the parson was so much 
taken with his new acquaintance that, to. 
induce him to remain at Alamance, he gave 
the following description of that ancient 
community. 

"Alamance," said he, "was one of the 
first places settled by the whites in middle 
Carolina. The lands are fertile, the cli- 
mate pleasant, and the country healthy, 
and thus this section of the state early at- 
tracted the attention of emigrants. Those 
who came to settle here were, generally, 
men of character and substance, and were 
seeking, not so much to advance their 
worldly fortunes as to promote their hap- 
piness, which was intimately connected 
with the enjoyment of civil and religious 
freedom. They were mostly ' Scotch- 
Irish,' a race of men who, the world over, 
have been proved to be true to their coun- 
try, to their friends, and their principles, 
which are always of a liberal cast. They 
are Presbyterians in religion, republicans 
in their political notions, and are ever 
ready to fight or go to the stake for their 
opinions. Such were the original inhab- 
itants of Alamance, who, far removed from 
cities and their fashionable follies and 
vices, were distinguished in their man- 
ners by a primeval simplicity, while their 
characters displayed the prisca et incorrvpla 
fides, the incorruptible integrity, candour, 
faith, and singleness of heart attributed by 
the poets to a fabled pastoral age. There 
was originally in the neighbourhood (and 
it is a large one) but one merchant, and 
not a single trader at large, by which last 
term I mean that sort of professional char- 
acter that prowls about society, flourishing 
on the vices which he propagates, and the 
necessities he creates. Nearly every fam- 
ily in the whole community was, and even 
now is, in independent circumstances, and 
some are even rich. Still there are no 
grades and coteries in society ; no parties 
in politics; and no hostile religious sects 
warring rancourously on each other, and 
claiming as their object the diffusion of a 
spirit of Christian philanthropy. My par- 
ishioners are generally severe in their 
judgment on themselves, charitable to the 
failings and shortcomings of others, and s 
though frugal in their expenditures, ever 



12 



ALAMANCE 



ready to entertain the stranger and relieve 
the necessitous. It is, sir, a remarkable 
and honourable fact, that every one in 
my congregation, over ten years old, can 
read and write ; some are even well read 
in history and the belles-lettres, and in 
every house you are sure to meet with 
well-thumbed copies of 'Fox's Book of 
Martvrs, 5 ' The Pilgrim's Progress,' 'The 
Balm of Gilead,' 'The Rise and Progress 
of Religion in the Soul, 1 and other kindred 
books. The leaving of my people is thus 
generally of a theological character, and 
the midwife, •diA several other good old la- 
dies in my cure, could hold their own 
against the famous Aquinas, and put to 
flight all the doctors of the Sorbonne. 
Thus religious subjects, with tales of reli- 
gious persecutions, of Indian massacres, 
and of civil usurpations, exactions and op- 
pressions, while away the winter evenings 
at every fireside, and tinge with a devo- 
tional hue the sentiments and feelings of 
the Alamancers. Our people, as 1 have be- 
fore intimated, would make excellent re- 
publicans, for there is among them a deep- 
rooted aversion, I may say detestation, of 
every species of tyranny, and an attach- 
ment to liberty — real, true, genuine, and 
well regulated liberty — stronger than the 
love of life or the fear of death. They 
have the virtues becoming citizens of a 
democracy — that first-born hope of philan- 
thropy. The old men are sedate, just, 
free-hearted, and single-hearted, well un- 
derstanding their rights, thinking for them- 
selves, and extremely jealous of those 
who cultivate popularity: the matrons are 
chaste, dutiful, and affectionate; the maid- 
ens pure, simple, artless, pious, tender, and 
beautiful; and the young men brave, in- 
genuous, and modest. Among all there is 
no one aspiring to take the lead. There 
as none of that restlessness, that reaching 
for family aggrandizement, that desire of 
change, which characterizes every com- 
munity, even in perfect democracies. 
There is also another notable difference 
between this people and other wealthy set- 
tlements in this country — " 

"By your leave," said M'Bride, "I will 
mention one which I have observed." 

" Certainly, proceed," replied the par- 
son. 

" Well, then, you must know," continued 
M'Bride, "that I came south expecting to 
find a different sort of people than those 
with whom I have had the honour of be- 
coming acquainted. 1 had heard much, 
and 1 had believed what I heard, of the sun- 
ny south, of its simple virtues, its knightly 
courtesies, and its generous feelings. I 
found its much-boasted, old-fashioned hos- 
pitality was but a profuse and wasteful 
extravagance, dictated by a vainglorious 
desire for notoriety ; its social gatherings 
disorderly routs ; its refinement consisting 



in a contempt for all other men and places, 
and in a supercilious and arrogant assump- 
tion of infinite superiority, and its intelli- 
gence limited to the knowledge of games, 
and of the histories and pedigrees of blood- 
horses. When I firstcame south, to a neigh- 
bouring province, I was honoured with an 
invitation to a great party, given by a weal- 
thy planter in honour of the nuptials of his 
son. It was to take place in midwinter, and 
for weeks before the whole country was in 
a buzz of conversation about it, every body 
appearing to be in a state of entire felicity 
at the bare anticipation of the glorious 
enjoyments of the approaching entertain- 
ment. On the day appointed, through 
sleet, and rain, and snow, 1 made my way 
to the house of my host. When I arrived, 
I heard a great tumult, saw loose horses 
scampering about, carriages and gigs bro- 
ken and upset, and negroes running to and 
fro in great confusion, some drunk, and 
all beside themselves and unapproachable 
in their new-blown dignities and upstart 
importance. It appeared that every one 
had brought his own servant to wait upon 
him and represent, his dignity, and, as I 
came alone, I was utterly neglected, until, 
wiih a handful of silver, I worked upon the 
sympathies of the most humble-looking 
negro I saw, got him to show me to the 
gentlemen's dressing-room and take charge 
of my horse. I was ushered into a gran- 
ary, warmed by a villainous old stove, 
and, in the presence of a parcel of roister- 
ing gallants, who paid no attention to me, 
I arranged my dress. Feeling myself pre- 
pared to be ushered into the company of 
the ladies, I followed the sound of a fiddle, 
and found myself at the door which open- 
ed into the public saloon. As no one met 
me to welcome me in, and as it was rather 
moist to wait long out of doors, I follow- 
ed the example of others, and was soon 
wedged so tight in the middle of the pas- 
sage, that I could move in no direction, 
and could scarcely turn my head. All 
those around me were chatting and laugh- 
ing like men in hysterics, making a most 
for lorn attempt at being perfectly happy, 
although some were fairly choked by the 
pressure, some squeezed into a jelly, and 
all fixed immovably in their stations. 
Through a door on one side, I saw into a 
room, around the sides of which men and 
women were packed together as if put up 
for exportation, and in the centre of which 
some young folk were dancing, each one 
having about eight inches square on which 
to cut his capers. On the other side of 
the passage was another room, in which I 
beheld a sea of old ladies' faces, solemn, 
prim, and proud, while their bodies were 
so jammed together that they looked like 
one solid bale of dry-goods compressed 
into the smallest possible space. After I 
had got thoroughly warmed, and even be- 



ALAMANCE. 



13 



gan to perspire, in my position, I fe.lt a 
disposition to change my location. Ac- 
cordingly, I learned from a Christian-look- 
ing gentleman that there were offices in 
the yard where married and elderly men 
could amuse themselves. To one of these 
I went, and found the tobacco smoke as 
thick as a London fog, and the floor one 
broad pool of spittle. I could dimly see 
that the bed was covered with meji,-t-be- 
fireplace surrounded, and that all were 
deeply interested in games of whist that 
were going briskly on at several tables, 
which were covered with decanters of 
brandy and whiskey. The other offices 
I found tenanted in like manner, and so, 
hungry, cold, and—wretched, I wandered 
about without meeting a soul who seemed 
to take the slightest interest in me. That 
night 1 lay, with a great number of others, 
in the granary, and the hardest scuffle I 
ever had was for a single blanket, with 
which I had covered, thereby depriving 
several of the only thing ihey had to in- 
terpose between themselves and the straw. 
Next day I indulged in some comments 
not very eulogistic of such entertainments, 
and was stared at and avoided as an ig- 
norant and ill-bred booby, totally destitute 
of all taste for refined and aristocratic 
amusements. The fact is, I was sadly de- 
ficient in their fashionable accomplish- 
ments; for, if you will believe me, when 
the old ladies are good cooks, the old 
gentlemen deed-players, the damsels un- 
tiring dancers, and the young gentlemen 
accomplished fiddlers, they consider them- 
selves as entitled to take rank in the high- 
est circles. Indeed, I found they were a 
nation of fiddlers, and in every village and 
hamlet was kept awake by an everlasting 
scraping of cat gut." 

"The general features in your picture 
are true," said the parson ; " but the col- 
ours are too glaring, and the caricature too 
great. As I was going to observe, a while 
ago, there is a want of polish among the 
rich planters of the South. There is little 
attention paid to the real amenities of life, 
and a fine scholar or well-read man is a 
rara avis. Nevertheless, we have the ma- 
terials—the richest materials. The men 
are manly, brave, and generous, the wom- 
en modest, chaste, and beautiful ; and when 
time and the advance of education have 
worn away the vices incident to new 
countries and recently acquired wealth, 
there will be a population and a society, 
even in the province of which you speak, 
not excelled by any in the world. Now 

1 Alamance has already made considerable 
progress, and is as free from southern ex- 
travagance and pomposity as from northern 
avarice and venality. Still human nature 
is the same in all ages and countries, and 
not more naturally does the decaying car- 
cass produce and attract .vultures and ob- 



scene vermin than do communities of men 
bring together, in the course of time, sharp- 
ers and speculators, who reap a golden 
harvest- from the follies they foster and the 
distresses they produce, as I before ob- 
served. Some few of these have lately 
found their way to Alamance, and, though 
they wear sheep's clothing, 1 have more 
than once heard the howl of the wolf and 
the cry of his victim. But this is not the 
worst — Cicero says that whatsoever is 
against nature is contrary to happiness. 
Now, before the time of Nimrod, that 
mighty hunter of men — yea, even in the 
days of our first mother, Eve, a certain 
feud commenced. To speak after the 
manner of the heathen, Nature was the 
first goddess — the original queen of men 
and brutes. Her undisputed reign was 
shorter than the golden one of Saturn, 
for soon her empire was disturbed by the 
pretensions of a rival. Fashion arose, and, 
laying claim to universal dominion, she 
soon won followers, and her power and 
influence have been steadily increasing. 
Like all aspiring rebels, this latter affects 
to be exactly and in all things the opposite 
of her rival, and indeed there is between 
them the broadest difference. The one, 
with a cheek like the first purple blushes 
of the early dawn, an eye like the morning 
star, a step like that of the startled fawn, 
and a voice like the dove's in spring-time, 
retreats timidly to her sylvan covert, where 
her votaries find her, like Eve before the 
fall, ' The fairest of her daughters,' chaste, 
simple, tender, 'and constant. ' Her chil- 
dren arise and call her blessed ; strength 
and honor are her clothing.' The other, 
bedizened with tawdry lace, blazing with 
jewels, and blushing with paint, with a 
brazen front, and a form tortured into a 
shape more uncouth than that of any mon- 
ster of the deep, flaunts along the highways 
and the crowded streets, and is heard and 
seen in the ball-room and the theatre, with 
a voice like the siren's, and an eye that 
lures to destruction. Giddy, fickle, and 
whimsical in her notions ; lascivious and 
wanton in her manners ; and gross, bestial, 
and vulgar in her ways, she. amuses her- 
self at the expense of her followers, mak- 
ing them perform all sorts of antics, trans- 
form themselves into the vilest shapes, 
and martyrize themselves in various ways 
to show their contempt of Nature. And 
as this latter makes even brutes respect- 
able, so the former would degrade men and 
women below the beasts of the field." 

" By my soul, that was truly and happi- 
ly said!" exclaimed M'Bride. 

" Such," continued the parson, " are the 
rival queens. Nature for a long time had 
undisputed sway at Alamance ; but some 
of our travelled young gentlemen have 
lately been to the cities, where they saw 
and fell desperately in love with Fashioa. 



14 



ALAMANCE. 



She has, therefore, a few proselytes of both 
sexes among us, for I have recently no- 
ticed some uncouth and frightful appari- 
tions, sprinkled through my congregation. 
As I am a Christian man, 1 nearly lost my 
gravity in the pulpit ; for I could not banish 
the fancy that I was preaching to a set of 
peripatetic baboons and solemn monkeys. 
These fashionables, however, made an un- 
favourable impression, and have been so 
ridiculed, that I trust that they are heart- 
ily ashamed of themselves, and will again 
assume the shapes and follow the habits 
of civilized human creatures. They have, 
I believe, Nebuchadnezzarized (to coin a 
word) long enough, and will henceforth be 
satisfied with their lot, as members of the 
human family." 

" God grant they may," said Hector 
M'Bride, " but I doubt it. I am half in- 
clined to believe in the doctrine of Pyth- 
agoras, with, however, this modification : 
that the soul, instead of actually migrat- 
ing, assumes an affinity to that of various 
beasts, and that the body endeavours to 
conform itself to these changes. Thus, I 
have known a man to be transmuted suc- 
cessively from bear to puppy, from puppy 
to monkey, and from monkey to ass. 
Some men have an inherent tendency 
downward ;,and I can scarcely believe the 
aggregate human family are advancing in 
civilization, when I consider what a large 
majority of individuals seem to grow worse 
as they grow older." 

" Perhaps," answered the" parson, " you 
generalize too much. It's a dangerous 
habit — but, to change the subject : What 
say you to an experiment of your theory 
about teaching at Alamance?" 

" I am willing, with all my heart," re- 
turned M'Eride ; " for I like the people, 
from your description." 



CHAPTER III. 

THE OLD-FIELD SCHOOL. 

In former times, the Old-Field School 
was an institution of learning known to 
and patronized by the highest and lowest 
in every part of the country. How it got 
its name is a subject for conjecture. Some 
are of opinion that it was given in deri- 
sion, to show that there is no affinity be- 
tween such places and the great Academia 
of Plato, which was in the midst of a shady 
grove, while others derive it from the prox- 
imity of these country-schools to fields 
worn out and unenclosed. Be the origin 
of its name what it may, it is certain that 
this institution bore little resemblance to 
the modern academy, and perhaps still 
less to the ancient. It was never a bant- 
ling of the Government, State or Federal, 
which, for the good of both, knew it not ; 
and, not being incorporated, it was happily 



freed from the fostering care of an enlight- 
ened board of fat trustees, under whose 
judicious management the cause of educa- 
tion fares about as well as would the ma- 
chinery of a modern steam-mill, when con- 
trolled by a body of learned mandarins. 
No such nuisance was ever known to the 
Old-Field School, nor was it ever subject 
t g sect arian influences, or affected by the 
politfCal disputes of tbe country ; and from 
it, therefore, humble as it often was, flow- 
ed a stream of morals and literature whose 
pure waters have refreshed and blessed 
the country. At Alamance the qualifica- 
tions of the master were tested by an ex- 
amination by the pardon and others best 
qualified to judge ; and it is to be observed, 
that the fact of being a leading politician, or 
of holding a commission to be a justice of 
the peace, no more made a man a scholar 
than did the possession of land and negroes 
render him a gentleman. Once installed 
into office, the master was subject to the 
control of no impertinent intermeddlers, 
and, being absolute monarch in his little 
kingdom, he governed it according to his 
own conscience and discretion, and with- 
out favour or partiality. The teacher out 
of school was the equal, the companion, 
and Mentor of his pupils; and hence, be- 
tween him and them there was not that 
awful and impassable gulf which now sep- 
arates professor and student, and renders 
them the implacable and hereditary ene- 
mies of each other. The master, to diffuse 
the benefits of his conversation, and to 
prevent imputations of undue favour to 
any, was the guest of all his patrons, with 
each of whom he boarded and lodged by 
turns, and in the families of all of whom 
he was an honoured member. It was con- 
sidered important that he should have at 
least a moderate share of common sense; 
he was believed to be subject to human 
sympathies and mortal feelings, and hence, 
out of school was regarded as a man and 
a Christian, and in all neighbourhood affairs 
had " a voice potential." 

In those Arcadian times, the boys and 
girls were supposed to belong to the same 
human family, and were so brought up and 
educated together as to be the friends of 
each other. Thus, an honourable emula- 
tion was excited, the confinement of study 
rendered pleasant, and the young people 
relieved from that fatal curiosity to pene- 
trate the mystery thrown around the other 
sex, which now absorbs the entire atten- 
tion of students. 

Such was the general character of the 
Old-Field School, and it remains only to 
notice some particulars connected with 
that of Alamance. Hector M'Bride having 
been chosen as the teacher, many vague 
rumours about him got into circulation 
among the children — some representing 
him as very mild, and others as extremely 



ALAMANCE. 



15 



expert at the use of the birch. His merits 
were talked over and discussed at length, 
and no satisfactory conclusion having been 
arrived at, all determined to wait till they 
had tried him. On the day of commence- 
ment, the scholars, all in new suits, were 
early at the school-house, and having in- 
troduced themselves or been introduced by 
their fathers to the master, this latter took 
down their names. Having next critically 
examined each one, he arranged them in 
classes, and assigned them to their stud- 
ies, putting many into branches that they 
had long ago passed over, remarking that 
it was better to know one thing well than 
half-a-dozen badly. This done, he made 
an address, laying down the principles on 
which he should conduct the school, and 
thereupon read a long list of rules, com- 
menting on and explaining each one sepa- 
rately. They were divided into three 
heads, and concerned the morals, the man- 
ners, and the studies of his students. As 
these iules are still preserved among the 
master's papers, and may prove interest- 
ing to pedagogues, a few of them are here 
given, with the number of each prefixed : 



10. 

11. 

\j 20. 

v •»■ 

\/23. 

r 

v 25 - 

N/-30. 

s/ 31. 
V/ 33. 
\/ 35. 



The punishments shall consist of whipping, slap- 
ping in the hand with the rule, riding the ass, 
and expulsion, according to the gravity of the 
offence. 

All the boys and girls may laugh, without noise, 
when any one is mounted on the ass ; but no 
one shall speak to him, or make gestures or 
ugly mouths at him, in token of derision. 

When the master tells an anecdote the students 
are not bound to laugh immoderately, though 
it will be considered respectful to give some 
indication of their being pleased or amused. 

Whenever one enters or leaves the house, if a 
boy he shall bow, and if a girl courtesy, to the 
master, and when a stranger comes in all shall 
rise and do the same towards him. 

When the boys meet a stranger on the road they 
must take off their hats and bow : they are en- 
joined to be, on all occasions, respectful and 
attentive to their seniors, and not to talk in 
their presence, except when bidden. 

Every boy shall consult the comfort and conve- 
nience of the girls before his own, and whoever 
is caught standing between a female and the 
fire shall be whipped. 

If any boy is caught laughing at the homeliness 
of a girl, or calling her ugly names, he shall 
ride on the ass. 

Giggles are detestable, and when a girl is amus- 
ed she must smile gracefully, or laugh out ; and 
if the master catches any one snickering he 
will imitate and reprimand her in presence of 
the whole school. 

Every offender, when called on, must fully in- 
form on himself, remembering, that by telling 
the truth he palliates his offence. 

When the master's rule falls at the feet of any 
one, he and all his guilty associates must come 
with it to the teacher. 

The master will inflict on every common in- 
former the punishment due, to the offence of 
which he maliciously gives information. 

As it is God who gives the mind, and as he has 
bestowed more on some than on others, it shall 
be considered a grave offence to laugh at or 
ridicule^iny one who is by nature dull or stu- 
pid, such persons being entitled to general com- 
miseration rather than contempt. 



WJThe girls must remember that the exemptions 
V to which their sex entitles them are to be used 
as a shield, and not as a sword ; and they are 
therefore enjoined to eschew the abominable 
and unlady-like habit of indulging in sarcasms 
and attempted wit at the expense of the boys. 
Whenever a girl loses the docility, gentleness, 
and benignity of manners becoming her sex, 
,she forfeits her title to the forbearance and def- 
/ erential courtesy of the males. 

<6J^No one shall, out of school, speak disrespect-' 
fully of the master, or of a fellow-student. 

4y>./Wo one shall ridicule, laugh at, or make re- 
^inarks about the dress of another ; the boys are 
enjoined to be kind and courteous to the girls, 
the girls to be neat and cleanly in their dresses, 
and all to act as if they were brothers and sis- 
ters, the children of the same parents. 

50. Let the words of The Preacher be held in con- 
stant remembrance, " Remember now thy Cre- 
ator in the days of thy youth," &c;, &c. 

Such are a few of the many rules which 
the master declared he would read publicly 
once a month, and each one of which he 
said he would rigidly enforce, remarking 
that it was better to have no laws than 
good ones not strictly obeyed. 

The punishment of riding on the ass was 
generally inflicted for long-continued and. 
gross neglect of study, vulgarity of man- 
ners, and insults to the girls, and was as 
follows : — The culprit, with a large pair of 
leather spectacles on his nose and a paper 
capon h is head, with the inscription "Fool's 
Cap," in Roman letters, was mounted a- 
straddle one of the joists, being assisted up 
by a few cuts of the master's switch, which 
sometimes played, at intervals, across 
his legs during the hour that he held his 
seat. This punishment was only inflicted 
on the males, and was considered as so 
disgraceful that it was rarely merited, and. 
when imposed attached a stigma to the 
culprit, which affected his standing in and 
out of school, for a long time afterwards. 

Having thus got his school under way, 
the master, to inspire at once an affection, 
for him as a man, as well as respect as a 
teacher, dismissed his students for recre- 
ation, went with them to the old field, 
helped to lay off the play-ground, and dis- 
cussed with them the various kinds of 
sports, teaching them, by explanations and 
practical illustrations, many new ones, 
which were considered highly interesting. 
Thus in the morning he at once establish- 
ed for himself a high character as a scholar 
and disciplinarian; by noon he was the 
fast friend of every scholar he had, and 
that evening boys and girls went home 
perfectly delighted with their new teacher, 
and feeling an emulous desire to excel in 
their studies which they had never felt be-» J 
fore. In a word, the master was, in each* 
scholar's eye, the very perfection of a 
man, and to be like him was the highest 
ambition of all. > 

After this auspicious beginning, we will > 
now leave, for a season, the master and his 
little kingdom. 



16 



ALAMANCE. 



CHAPTER .IV. 



A VISIT TO THE OLD-FIELD SCHOOL. 

The school-house at Alamance was a 
neat log-building, situated in the skirt of 
a thick wood, with a large, old field in 
front. Those who were studying the 
higher branches were permitted to get 
their lessons out of doors ; and hence, as 
we approach we see faces, male and fe- 
male, peeping at us from behind the sunny 
side of every fallen tree. We enter, and 
the whole 'school simultaneously rising, 
but keeping their eyes on their books, the 
boys dip their heads forward, the girls 
courtesy, and again take their seats; the 
master, who is hearing a class recite, po- 
litely bowing us to a vacant bench. We, 
^jbeing strangers, our arrival is the occa- 
sion of an energetic application to study, 
signified by an emulous effort to see who 
can bawl the loudest and the fastest. With 
every variety of note, and in every possi- 
ble key, and ( with a sort of modulated ca- 
dence or chant, they sing over their les- 
sons, making a not unpleasant melody, 
and one which is passing sweet to the 
master's ears. There, in a corner, with 
his short legs hooked together under the 
bench, and the big tears still moist on his 
swollen cheeks, sits a lately-flagellated 
urchin, who, in the midst of his sorrows, 
does not forget the proper sing-song tone, 
as he sobs out, with long intervening 
pauses, the letters of his alphabet. Just 
by him, and swaying to and fro on her 
seat, like one exercised at a camp-meet- 
ing by religious influences, sits a girl hum- 
ming over the Sermon on the Mount, and 
interjecting alternately an " «m" and an 
"aA" at the end of every sentence, while 
on all sides the operations of figures and 
the results of additions, subtractions, mul- 
tiplications, and divisions, are announced 
as if they were set to musici At the end 
opposite the fire is the writing-bench, a 
long slab, supported by pins driven under it 
into the wall, and lighted by a narrow win- 
dow, whose shutter is a plank swung on 
leather hinges. Here, with their rounded 
backs to us, their arms spread out in wide 
ellipses, their foreheads knit and frowning, 
and their mouths working and twisting 
with every motion of their pens, are some 
eight or ten making desperate efforts to 
counterfeit their copy ; and there, encir- 
cling the teacher, stands the grammar- 
class, reciting their lessons and pinching 
and sticking pins into each other's backs 
and elbows. A dense crowd is swaying to 
and fro in front of the blazing fire, the 
"duts" pushing hard to get in, and the 
"ins," whose linsey-woolseys are scorch- 
ing, making desperate efforts to get out. 
More than one coy lass is peeping at us 
over the top of her book, and little strips 
of paper are constantly and mysteriously 



flitting about, from the male to the female- 
benches and back again, and yet no one is 
seen to throw them. The manner of each 
one, as he takes t lie pass to go out, or 
hangs it up on his return, excites a smile 
in which the master sometimes joins. This 
is more 'especially the case when a white- 
haired urchin pitches his head forward as 
if he would snap it off, or some tall gawk, 
with his eye fixed on his sweetheart, in 
scraping one foot backwards and bending 
his body forwards, loses his balance and 
pitches on all-fours into the middle of the 
room. In the farthermost corner of the 
house we observe a knot of little fellows 
who are totally oblivious of all going on 
around them, and are making themselves 
extremely merry over the master's por- 
trait rudely sketched on a slate, and to 
which each one gives a touch with his 
pencil. They are not unseen by a watch- 
ful eye, and suddenly their amusement is 
interrupted by the well-aimed rule, the fall 
of which at their feet startles them from 
their seats, as if a thunderbolt had struck 
in their midst. The slate is instantly laid 
down with the likeness still on it, and the 
artists, trembling with fear and blushing 
with shame at the consciousness of being 
gazed at by all the school, hide their faces 
with their books, the more timid beginning 
to whimper, while the stout-hearted look 
down" on the emblem of justice in sulky 
silence. '■ Prnxirnus. the next class !" cries 
a voice of authority, and as the ring round 
the master is cleared, there is an instant 
scampering from near the fire, a few cuts 
of the master's rod hastening the flight of 
the fugitives ; books that were thrown aside 
are hastily resumed, some with the wrong 
end upward, and several gay Lotharios 
slide softly away from the ends of the 
benches next to the girls. When this sec- 
ond class have finished their recitation, the 
master, with a severe gravity, calls out, 
" Bring me the rule." There is a dead 
silence for a minute, the boys marked out 
for execution hanging their heads and sad- 
ly gazing on the fatal instrument. " Bring 
me my rule, I say," repeats the master, 
" and that slate !" The boldest of the cul- 
prits now taking hold of the rule as if it 
were a snake, and slowly edging himself off 
his seat, marches up to the master, followed 
by all his guilty associates, one of whom 
carries the slate. " When you draw my 
likeness again," says the master, "you 
must do it better. This is a miserable 
botch, for which, and for your laughing, 
you are punished." So saying, he takes 
the hand of each and gives it a few gentle 
taps, whereby the whole school is stimu- 
lated to renewed industry, the din of study 
rising at least a key higher at every slap. 
At length is heard that sound, of all others 
the most pleasant to a school-boy's ears, 
" Shut up books for play." All is instant. 



ALAMANCE. 



IT 



excitement, confusion, and change — the 
master descending from his dignity, and 
the scholar throwing off his reverence. 
Hats, bonnets and baskets are snatched 
from the wooden hooks that stud the walls, 
smd the master is soon surrounded by a 
bevy of lively, chattering girls, with rose- 
tinted cheeks, asking him questions, prof- 
fering presents, and insisting, each one, 
on his dining with her. Leaving these 
and the smaller lads by the fire, we will 
follow to the old field the larger boys, who, 
with biscuits and slices of bacon in their 
hands, have hurried off, with a wild clatter, 
to the playground. 

It seems they are not for sport to-day, 
for on the farther side of the field, where the 
sedge is highest and the sun is warmest, 
they have clustered together, and, appa- 
rently, are engaged in some mysterious 
and important discussion. As we near 
them we find that a. treasonable plot is 
hatching against some one whose name 
is not mentioned. One, like Moloch, is 
for "War, deadly war;" another recom- 
mends the experiment of a cold bath in 
a neighbouring stream ; while a third is 
decidedly of opinion that the individual in 
question should be tied with his back to 
the bench, and left to cool in the open a^r. 
At length, and at the same time, several 
voices call for the opinion of the judge — 
and in the person referred to we recog- 
nize our old acquaintance, Henry Warden, 
whose fair skin, small, white hand, and 
slender form seem to indicate that nature 
had, indeed, designed him for the ermine 
and the council-room rather than for the 
rough scenes of the tented field. He owed 
his soubriquet, however, not so much to his 
physical constitution as to his habits of 
thinking and meditating alone, and to the 
clearness and comprehensiveness of his 
judgments. All now listened respectfully 
to his opinion as he modestly, but forcibly 
unfolded his views. 

"I think there is a middle course," said 
he, " by which we can gain our ends with- 
out using violence or showing any cow- 
ardice. We all know he is a worthy man, 
and we ought not, therefore, to use rough 
measures unless we are compelled."' 

" But if we miss this chance," answered 
a stouter boy, named William Glutson, 
«' we may never get such another opportu- 
nity. I tell you I'm for fun." 

" There's not much fun or courage ei- 
ther in cruelty," retorted the judge. 

*' And who taught you so much about 
courage ?" asked Glutson. 

"That's my opinion," replied the judge, 
" and I've often heard my mother say the 
same thing." 

" That settles the question," said Glut- 
son, with a sneer; when the judge, with 
flashing eyes, demanded what he meant. 

"No disrespect," answered Glutson, 
B 



"only I thought and meant that you and 
the ladies are competent judges in such 
matters." 

" Not so good as Mr. Glutson." said the 
judge, "who will be as terrible to an 
armed enemy as he is gentle and accept- 
able to the girls." 

It was now Glutson's time to ask an ex- 
planation, which he did with a sharp voice 
and flushed cheek ; and the judge, in mak- 
ing it, remarked, 

" I mean, if you are brave then bullies 
are much belied. Do you wish further in- 
formation as to my opinion V 

Glutson, without replying directly to the 
questioner, turned to the other boys and 
observed, that he " wished to hear no more 
of the sage opinions of the heroic judge, 
or of his very judicious mamma." 

Henry's eyes again flashed, and his 
whole frame quivered with emotion, when 
Ben Kust interfered to put an end to the 
quarrel. Ben, who was about the age of 
Glutson, was a universal peace-maker, 
never being able to endure to see a fight, in 
which he was not a party militant. His 
frame was short, compact, and muscular, 
his chest full, round, and broad, while his 
large, bushy head seemed to sprout out 
immediately from between his shoulders 
without the intervention of a neck : a 
clear, blue eye, a large, but rather short or 
snub nose, and a wide mouth, filled with 
powerful teeth, were the ornaments of a 
face so formed by nature as to be incapa- 
ble of any other expression than that of 
good humour. It was the decided opinion 
of this interesting worthy, emphatically 
expressed, that both the judge and Bill 
Glutson were "too tall for their inches by 
considerably upwards of a jugful," and 
that they ought to be ashamed of them- 
selves for showing so much temper. " You, 
judge," continued he, " are too cussed 
smart; your wit shaves like a new-hoiled 
razor, and you know Bill wants his bristles 
to grow long. As for you, Billy, my son, 
don't let me ketch you growlin agin at a 
smaller boy when your uncle is about. If 
I do, my Christin friend, you won't know 
what hurt you. I have a notion — that is 
to say, my foot has a notion — any how, to 
kick you till your nose bleeds ; but, hows- 
ever, jine hands, both of you, and make 
friends." 

" 1 am not hypocrite enough for that," 
said the judge. 

"And I," said Glutson, " don't care who 
knows I hate him." 

" Well, well, my Christin friends," re- 
joined Ben, "it's a free country, and you 
can do as you please about that, providin, 
you listen to what your uncle says. I now 
lay down the law, that there must be no 
more quarrels or fusses till the grand bat- 
tle is over ; and all on you, like dutiful 
subjects, must jine in and make common 



18 



ALAMANCE. 



cause agin the common enemy. I'm 
your captin-gineral and brigadier-in-chief, 
and 1 declare for the judge's opinion. 
We'll go accordin to sarcumstances, and 
be no harder nor the natur of the case de- 
mands ; and reinember you must all be on 
the ground bright and airly to-morrow 
monun, armed and equipped as the law 
directs, and wilh ropes, catapults, torna- 
does, and all the ingines of war; and now 
this court-martial is dismissed, viva voce, 
nunc pro tunc and E pluribus unum, as old 
Proximus says." 

Having delivered this speech, standing 
and with great gravity, solemnly empha- 
sizing the Latin words, and particularly 
rolling out the last ones with deep and 
swelling tones, Ben whirled a summerset, 
gave a shout, and, followed by the others, 
started in a run for the play-ground. As 
he came up he was violently contended for 
by the captains of the play : and to settle 
the matter they cast lots by throwing 
"cross and pile," as it was called, for the 
first choice. The new hands were then di- 
vided off; but the judge, who was moody, 
made the game unequal by refusing to play. 
Edith Mayfield, who was on the bthor side, 
withdrew also from the play, alleging that 
she waslired ; and the numbers on the op- 
posing sides being equal, the sport went 
briskly on. 

" See," said the sweet-voiced girl above 
named, as she sat down by the judge, "see 
how the ball has blistered my hand." 

The blister was hardly visible to the 
naked eye, but the hand was a very white 
and tender little one, and the judge must 
needs take it gently in both of his, exam- 
ine it very attentively, and hold it to as- 
suage its pain. 

" Does it hurt much]" asked he, as he 
handled it with the most tender care. 

" Not very much now," answered Edith, 
looking up into his face with a smile that 
made him forget his sorrows ; " it was very 
painful, but it's nearly cured. How I do 
despise- Will Glutson!" 

" Why, what has he had to do with your 
hand *" asked the judge, in surprise. 

" He has had nothing to do with it," re- 
plied Edith, " and never shall ; for I can 
never endure to shake hands with him 
again.*' 

" Has he offended you, Edith'!" 

Not knowing exactly what to say, afraid 
to tell the truih, and still more afraid of 
telling an untruth, Edith remained silent. 

" Tell me, Edith," continued the judge, 
becoming excited, "tell nie what he has 
done to you." 

" He has done nothing to me," she an- 
swered, and again paused, with her eyes 
bent on the ground. " I know he's a cow- 
ard," she at length continued. 

"And why do you think so 1 ?" inquired 
Henry. 



" I don't know exactly," answered Edith ; 
"but 1 always thought so. He's always 
laughing at the girls for being timid, im- 
posing on the smaller boys, and is very 
cruel to the servants." 

" Your test is a good one," said the 
judge ; " but see, the master is going to 
call to books." 

The judge, who never desired any one 
to side with him in a quarrel, determined 
that evening to be miserable, but h;-;d to 
abandon his resolution; for he felt that 
his face was constantly shone upon by 
the tender eyes of Edith, and whenever he 
looked at her, and this was not seldom, she 
would smile in such a way that it was im- 
possible not to feel entirely happy, even 
in spite of himself. 

The hour for being spelled arrived at 
last, and all the scholars, except a few 
very small ones, took their stand in a row 
extending round two sides of the room. 
Next to the fire was " the head" or post of 
highest honour, and by the door was " the / 
foot" or lowest rank. In the school of 
Alamance the merit of each scholar was \ 
estimated by the rank he held when the \ 
school was "spelled ;" and on their return ' 
at night, the first information given by the 
children to their parents was in regard to 
the number which they stood. Each stu- 
dent always remembered his place, and 
took it without confusion. On the even- 
ing to which we have alluded, Henry War- 
den, as was usual, stood head. Edith May- 
field occupied her accustomed place, and 
Ben Rust, as was very unusual, stood third. 
He got there by accident several days be- 
fore, and for some time maintained his po- 
sition .by the assistance of the judge and 
Edith, the latter of whom would laugh out 
when she was amused and no one was 
offended ; would sometimes whisper pret- 
ty loud; and do it so openly, and then look 
so pleasantly and archly at the master, 
with a bright sparkle in her eyes, that he 
could not find it in his heart to chide her. x 
On one occasion, however, Ben could not 
hear her distinctly, and so he started down- 
ward. His progress was continuous; and 
in a short time, and to the amusement of 
the whole school, he landed at the foot, 
saying, in a quiet way, " Now I feel more 
nateral." "Pneumatics!" gave out the 
master to the one who stood next to War- 
den, who had purposely missed a word, 
and who now was second, while Edith 
stood head. The boy could not. spell it; 
the next blundered, and the next did the 
same. The eyes of Rust began to twin- 
kle ; and as the word still kept coming 
down, his lips began to move, his hand 
was on his head, and his face turned up- 
ward with an expression indicating the 
profoundest thought. At length the word 
readied him ; and Ben, after a pause, sud- 
denly started, asking, 



ALAMANCE. 



19 



. "What did you say the word was?" 

" Pneumatics,'''' answered the teacher : 
"come, be quick ; for it is the last word, 
and the sun is nearly down." 

" Yes, sir," said Ben : " Peneumatics ! 
Now let me see ; did you say '•'pneumatics' 
was the word]" 

" I did," replied the master. 

"And it don't begin with NV asked 
Ben. 

" I did'nt say so ; but such is the fact." 

" Pneu-ma<-ics ! was it all spelled right 
except, the first syllable V 

" 1 can*t answer any more questions," 
said the master. 

" Well," answered Ben, " I know m, a, t, 
spells '■mat,'' and i,c,k,s, spells 'zcAs;' so 
the question is as to the ' New.'' What 
can it be ? Oh, G, n, oo, Gnoo, m, a " 

"Wrong, wrong!" exclaimed the mas- 
ter; and so Edith had to spell the word. 

The school was now dismissed ; and 
Henry Warden, who was a general fa- 
vourite, and whose sadness had been ob- 
served, had to decline many pressing invi- 
tations to go with his fellow-students. 

The sun was far down among the trees 
as the torrent of youthful life, with a mer- 
ry din, poured out ©f the school-house, and 
streaming off by different roads, waked 
with song, and joke, and boisterous laugh- 
ter, the echoes of those ancient woods for 
miles around. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE TURNING OUT OP THE MASTER. 

The events related in the last chapter 
took place two days before Christmas, and 
after Hector M'Bride had been teaching 
for some time at Alamance. Before the 
early dawn on the following morning, near- 
ly all the boys and many of the girls as- 
sembled at the school-house, and com- 
menced fortifying it to bar the entrance of 
the master. The window over the writ- 
ing-bench,, though too narrow to admit the 
body of a man, was closed with slabs, and 
the door was bolted on the inside with a 
quantity of bars, beams, and benches, suffi- 
cient to have defied the efforts of a battal- 
ion without artillery. Besides the chim- 
ney, the little window above the master's 
desk was the only other point of ingress, 
and here, all the larger boys, mounted on 
tables and benches, were to take their 
stand. Through this window, Ben Rust 
went out and hung on a pole fastened to 
the roof of the house a small flag, on which 
were blazoned in large letters, "School- 
boys' Rights." and then tacked on the door 
a placard, on which was drawn a coil of 
ropes, with the sentence, " No admission 
but on conditions," written at the bottom. 
These preparations having been com- 
pleted, although the sun was not yet up, 



the students began to look anxiously for 
the master. Many felt a strange palpita- 
tion of the heart ; some wished it was well 
over, and others secretly rued having em- 
barked in the business, and thought they 
had rather study a week than undertake to 
gain a holyday by such a hazardous exper-, 
iment. The more timid, making forlorn 
efforts at looking unconcerned and telling 
jokes, trembled at every rustle in the 
leaves, and all spoke in half-whispered, 
tremulous tones. Some, with great ap- 
parent coolness, amused themselves by 
trying to scribble on the sheets of paper 
that lay scattered about, but their hands 
were unsteady ; some made lively attempts 
to entertain the girls, but their teeth chat- 
tered as if they were in an ague ; and oth- 
ers clustered about Rust, cracking their 
wit upon him, and gathering confidence 
from his quiet, determined manner. Sud- 
denly the sound of footsteps behiud the 
house threw all within into a fever of ex- 
citement, some seizing their books, some 
rushing to the window and the chinks in 
the wall, and some walking to and fro 
without any definite purpose. The foot- 
steps still approached, and Ben, listening 
very attentively, exclaimed, 

" There's more nor one, by Jove !" 

" Do you think he's brought assistance !" 
asked an ashy-coloured lad, trembling all 
over. 

" Surely, no one would take part with 
him," remarked another. 

" There's no tellin what may happen," 
said Ben ; " and it may be the old folks are 
goin to try to break up the custom, for 
I've heern'sich chat.'* 

" If that's the case, we can't fight against 
our fathers," observed one who desired an 
excuse to surrender; "and suppose they 
bring pistols." 

"Suppose the devil comes himself," an- 
swered Rust, " we'll give him a chunkin ; 
for there's plenty of fire here. Let all Al- 
amance come ; the more the merrier, I 
say." 

" And so dol," said the judge ; " and if 
they choose to fight us, they must take 
what they get^ 

By this time the footsteps were heard 
advancing round to the front of the house, 
and suddenly, an old black horse with a 
most woful countenance, came in view. 
He paused when he saw the heads at the 
window, and gazing at them very solemn- 
ly for several minutes, he gave a feeble 
neigh, and then gravely walked off in pur- 
suit of his pleasure. The occupants of the 
castle were prodigiously relieved at what 
they saw ; and becoming by this time used 
to their situation, they felt ready for a trial 
of their courage. Ben, now seating him- 
self in the master's chair, requested all to 
be silent while he made a few remarks. 

" You see, my Christin friends," said he. 



20 



ALAMANCE. 



" how a man's fears can make a fool of 
him. That old crittur which you all took 
for a legion of armed men, was so tickled 
at your fright, that though he seems to be 
a decent and gentlemanly old hoss, he 
could'nt hold in, and laughed right in our 
faces. He was so mightily amused, I 
could see it in his eyes ; and did'nt you 
see how contemptiously he switched his 
tail, as much as to say, 'good-bye, boys, 
you're green.' I tell you, the way to get 
out of danger is to face it. : even a painter 
or a wild cat will walk off if we look him 
straight in the eyes. You must " 

" Yonder he comes ! yonder he comes !" 
exclaimed several who were at the win- 
dow ; and sure enough, the master, with 
his eyes bent on the ground, a staff in his 
hand, and a book under his left arm, came 
in view. All heads were withdrawn from 
the window, and perfect silence reigned 
within." Walking leisurely to the door, the 
master looked for the string of the latch, 
and finding it was gone, began to rap with 
his stick. 

" I surely saw some one at the window," 
said he ; and again he rapped more loudly, 
calling out " Robert Smith !" 

" Sir," answered the boy, running across 
the room, and forgetting himself till he was 
seized and admonished. to be silent. 

" Robert," continued the master, " open 
this door, my son. Will no one let me 
into this house 1 ho, you within, what 
fool's play is this !" 

.As no one answered, he continued to 
rattle at the door, working himself inio a 
towering passion, and uttering the fiercest 
exclamations. The excitement within 
was now intense, and many, doubtful of 
the issue of the attempt to bar out, stood 
with their books in hand, ready to act ac- 
cording to emergency. The master, after 
repeated efforts, finding the door firml) r 
barred, walked off and began to cut and 
trim a supply of rods, occasionally look- 
ing back to observe the effect of this 
manoeuvre. Returning again, "with his 
switches in one hand and a beam of wood 
in the other, he said, solemnly, 

" Boys, open this door. If you do not, 
I shall batter it down, and the blame will 
lie on yourselves." 

" Read the nouce," said one within. 

"The notice, hah!" replied the master, 
putting on his spectacles ; " its a bungling 
fist. Treason, as 1 live — foul treason and 
rebellion; and -it shall be duly punished. 
Young rebels ! admit me instantly into 
my house, or I'll whip every mother's son 
of you till the blood trickles down your 
backs!" 

"Kctchin's before hangin," answered 
Rust, displaying his face at the window. 
"Praps, my Christin friend, if you'll flog 
the house you might save yourself a deal 
of trouble and whip us all in a lump." 



"Benjamin! Benjamin! are you mad 1" 
asked M'Bride. 

"Not purticularly so," said Ben; "how 
is it with yourself? I hope your exercise 
keeps you warm, for its an ontolerable 
cold mornin." 

" Mr. Rust," retorted" the master, "it ill 
becomes you to be jesting thus with your 
teacher, and I can hardly believe the evi- 
dence of my own senses. Let me in, and 
I'll forgive the past; but wo be to you and 
your deluded followers if you do not !" 

Ben, not in the least moved by this ap- 
peal, very quietly informed the master that, 
"accordin to the laws of the Medes and 
Persians, every dog must have its day," and 
that, therefore, the day of old Proximus was 
over for the present. "All of which, "he con- 
tinued, "we'll maintain viva voce'''' — apiece 
of gratifying intelligence which was follow- 
ed by a rap of the master's switch rather 
uncomfortably close to the speaker's face. 
The teacher's blows now followed in quick 
succession, and he and Rust were begin- 
ning to pant with their exertions, the one to 
enter and the other to defend the window, 
when the latter exclaimed, 

"Let's parley." 4 

" J have nothing more to say, young 
rebel," M'Bride answered, preparing more 
rods. 

" But I have a deal to say to you," said 
Rust, " and it consarns you to listen. We 
don't want to harm a hair on your head, 
and are only defendin our nateral rights ; 
but our blood may git hot, and then there's 
no tellin what may happen. I spose you 
only wanted to show pluck and then. give 
up ; and as we are satisfied with your cour- 
age, you had better now surrender." 

" I'll show you whether I am in fun or 
not, yo.u saucy whelp," exclaimed the 
master, whose blows soon cleared the 
window, one of them welting several fa- 
ces. Seizing the favorable moment, he 
sprung to the window, and was half way 
in when he was grappled by Rust, whom 
he dragged out after him, and one of the 
skirts of whose coat was left behind on a 
nail. The judge and several others tum- 
bled out to sustain their leader: but the 
foe, breaking loose from the crowd, put 
his legs into a rapid motion, ill sorting 
with his usual gravity. The boys, with a 
loud shout, gave chase, Ben, with his sin- 
gle-skirted coat, leading the pack, and 
yelping like a beagle-hound. The game, 
doubling and wheeling round trees with 
admirable dexterity, soon tired down his 
pursuers, and coursed off in gallailt style. 
The oV)or was flung open, and the woods 
swarmed with a merry crowd, shouting, 
laughing, and betting on the race. The 
tumult made by those in pursuit became 
fainter and fainter, and finally died away. 
Suddenly, and in an opposite direction, it 
was heard again, and soon the master, far 



ALAMANCE. 



31 



in advance of his followers, dashed through 
the crowd at. the house, darted in at the 
door, and, slapping his rod on the floor, 
called sternly, " to books !" The peda- 
gogue in his chair of authority is a more 
awful personage than the master out of 
doors; and, accordingly, M'Bride was now 
obeyed, and the usual din of study began 
to be heard when the larger boys entered. 
They had held a short consultation out of 
doors, and it was easy to see that their 
blood was up, and that they contemplated 
rough measures as they took their stand 
round the teacher^ 

"Young men," said the latter, "take 
your seats. I am loath to whip you, but 
vou will force me to do it if you do not 
instantly resume your studies." 

" Whipping is a game two can play at," 
answered the judge, " and we're as loath 
to do it as you are. I" must, however, in- 
form you, that if you do not grant our 
demands we can and we will use rough 
measures." 

M'Bride made no reply, but rbse to his. 
feet and raised his chair, when the judge 
exclaimed, 

" Rust, prepare your ropes ; and now, 
boys, on." 

As he darted towards the master, the 
chair of the latter fell harmless, and with 
a laugh he said, 

" I surrender ; what's your will ?" 

" Here are our demands," answered 
Henry Warden, and he read the following 
carefully-written letter : 

" To Mr. Hector M'Bride. 

"Sir, — You are hereby informed that, 
in accordance with an ancient and well- 
established usage, you are to be this day 
excluded from your school-house and pro- 
ceeded against as an enemy until you 
agree to the following terms, to wit : You 
are to let us have this for a holyday extra, 
and not count it in the calendar, as it is 
won by our valour. You are also to spend 
one pound sterling in the purchase of such 
refreshments and confections as you may 
deem proper for us, and on your refusal 
to comply with these conditions we, will 
Jeel authorized to compel submission by 
Kuxe : For all of which there are abun- 
dant precedents. 

"We remain your affectionate pupils, 

" Henry Warden, ^ 

"Will. Glutson, >Com'tte." 

" Ben. Rust, y 

" You have shown your pluck," said the 
master, "and I trust I have also displayed 
some courage ; and now we'll laugh" ov-er 
the little accidents of the day." 

So saying, he sat down and wrote an 
order for the apples, cakes, candies, and 



cider, which he had before purchased for 
the occasion and left with his nearest pat- 
ron. The parents now began to drop in, 
and were surprised and elated to find their 
sons had conquered the master so soon. 
The " barring out" was a high festival at 
old field schools, and the prescriptive 
rights of students in regard to it, were re- 
spected by all. On such occasions the 
situation of the teacher was a trying one. 
It was considered as his duty to resist to 
the last, and yet those who so considered 
desired to see him conquered. The turn- 
ing out was considered as a sort of minia- 
ture war, in Which it was incumbent on 
the master to teach his pupils coolness, 
fortitude, and perseverance. 

At the time referred to, the old people 
congratulated master and scholar, and 
were highly pleased with the conduct of 
both. 

Among the visitors was Mr. Cornelius 
Demijohn, commonly called Corny Demi- 
john, a sedate bachelor of a grave'presence, 
and weighing some twenty odd stone. Al- 
though he had no children, he took a great 
interest in the school; and having been 
consulted by the students in regard to the 
proper method of proceeding in turning 
out the master, he had arrived early, and, 
from a concealed position, watched, with 
lively interest, the fortunes of the day. 
He was supposed to be skilled in military 
science, and his heart was as kind as char- 
ity, and his hand ever ready to strike for 
his friend. He was by blood related to no 
one but his mother at Alamance, yet all 
seemed to be his nephews and nieces, for 
he was universally known as " Uncle Cor- 
ny." As usual, his advent created a sen- 
sation among the young folk, and especi- 
ally among the girls, who immediately be- 
gan to cluster about him, and chatter away 
like a flock of magpies round a grave Mus- 
covy duck. The old men told long stories 
of their own exploits on such occasions; 
the little boys listened, and the young men 
romped with the females, and assisted 
them in putting Uncle Corny into trouble. 
As the day wore towards its noon, the 
young people became desirous that their 
parents and teacher should join them in a 
grand game of town-ball ; and, the Rev. 
Dr. Caldwell arriving about this time,tho 
same request was made of him. The so- 
licitation showed on what terms the par- 
son lived with his people, respect for the 
minister being tempered by affection for 
the man ; while his ready assent displayed 
the cheerfulness of a disposition which the 
studies of his calling had failed to tinge 
with an austere or fanatic feeling. 

All, accordingly, adjourned to the old 
field, and the sport commenced in earnest. 
Conscious of innocence, and therefore 
fearless of the censure of the world, or of 
Heaven, the sun in his course never looked 



22 



ALAMANCE. 



down On a happier crowd than was that 
day assembled on the play-ground at the 
Old field school of Alamance. The editor 
of these memoirs, hurried on by more 
stirring- incidents, regrets that he cannot 
stop to describe the play, once so interest- 
ing to him, and to make a good performer 
in which required a true eye, a quick hand, 
and great activity of body. He regrets 
his inability to chronicle the mishaps of 
Uncle Corny,* and the sprightliness of the 
master, both of which created no little 
merriment ; and he 'regrets still more that 
he cannot hand down to fame the exploits 
of the parson, the simplicity of whose heart 
and the energies of whose body, were alike 
untouched by the blight of advancing years. 
The master, whose notes we follow, when 
he comes to the sports of this day, in the 
very beginning of his account breaks off 
with the exclamation, "Eheu, priscos f di- 
ces lusus ! Eheu, tempora mulata .'" He 
then continues his remarks with equal 
beauty and pathos.. 

" We shall not attempt," says he, " to 
draw a picture of what no pen can de- 
scribe. If there be any yet living who 
witnessed that, or similar scenes, where 
age and learning, wisdom and piety, beauty 
and innocence, forgetting the world, its 
vices, and its sorrows, wore away the 
winged hours in harmless sport and frolic, 
they will know that his would be a dar- 
ing pen who should attempt a description; 
and if all the actors in those merry scenes 
are gathered to the last mansions of mor- 
tality, it would be a bootless task to dwell 
on recollections which none can appre- 
ciate." 

The editor has witnessed similar scenes, 
and deep in his memory are those scenes 
engraven, and there shall they remain, the 
sweetest picture in the recollections of the 
past, till that memory is darkened by the 
shadows of death ! Pray, then, good read- 
er, excuse the writer if he is tedious and 
garrulous on trivial matters that interest 
you but little. Remember that, after the 
vicissitudes of a long and chequered life, 
the dear scenes of his early, and happy 
youth are now before him, softened, chast- 
ened, and beautified by the moonlight of 
memory; and surely you will excuse him 
for taking "one longing, lingering look," 
before he shuts his eyes upon them and 
dashes into the more memorable but sad- 
der scenes which follow. He is only a 
half-enchanter; he has conjured up from 
its mossy grave the fair, pale spirit of the 
past ; but it will not down at his bidding. 
Bear with him, then, for a little while, and 
you soon shall be ushered into the midst 
of stirring times, and of great events, and 
see enough of 

" Battles, sieges, fortunes ; 

Of most, disastrous chances — • / 

Of moving 'accidents by Hood and field." / 



CHAPTER VI. 

A GREAT MAN AT ALAMANCE. 

How Nathan Glutson "came into the 
world, and where he first saw the light, 
was matter of speculation more perplex- 
ing than profitable to his neighbours. It 
is certain that he was the son of his moth- 
er ; but if he ever had a father, that for- 
tunate personage must have been fond of 
obscurity, for, according to the gossips, 
neither wife nor offspring ever knew him 
as husband or parent. Nathan, however, 
as we will see, was not one of those who 
need the influence of illustrious paternity 
to push them forward in the world. Like 
other renowned men, he was born with ay. 
the elements of greatness in himself, and 
was destined to reflect from the meridian 
sun of his own glory an unfading lustre on 
all his race ; as well on thqse who pre- 
ceded as on those who came after him on 
the stage of being. The mystery which 
envelopes his origin shrouds also his early 
youth ; and for the interesting bistory of 
this portion of his eventful life, the world 
must be indebted to the pen of Nathan 
himself; Until the publication of his auto- 
biography, we must restrain our impatient 
curiosity, and take him where the Ala- 
mancers found him, at the age of two and 
twenty. Having attained his majority, and 
being aware that a prophet is not without 
honour except in his own country, Nathan 
left the country of his ancestors and set- 
tled at Alamance. A disciple of Saint 
Crispin, he came with hammer and awl to 
shoe the Alamancers, thus typifying his 
more important mission, which was to 
harness with sound doctrine the souls of 
his new and simple neighbours, and new- 
vamp their minds, so as to enable them 
to walk unhurt over the briers and sharp 
stones of this thorny wilderness. He 
pitched his tent, or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, he built his shop at the crossing of 
two public roads. A painted sign was hung 
out, to be gazed at with admiring wonder 
by every mill-boy that passed along, and 
printed cards were circulated for the be- 
wilderment of the public generally.. Sign- 
boards such as his, and cards, ^were new 
things at ^.lamance ; and, while they con- 
stituted a novelty interesting to the young, 
they were regarded by some very shrewd 
old people as unerring indications of the 
fast-approaching end of the world. The 
earth, however, despite their opinions, 
kept on its usual courses, and the Ala- 
mancers, satisfied by degrees of Nathan's 
superior artistical skill, gave him a liberal 
patronage. Glutson, increasing in world- 
ly substance, took to himself for wife'an 
old spinster with a hundred acres of land, 
one hundred wrinkles in her face, and five 
hundred crotchets in her temper. Such 
were the lands, goods, and chattels, which 



ALAMANCE. 



23 



Nathan got by marriage ; and turning all 
but the crotchets and the wrinkles into 
money, he took an apprentice to his trade, 
opened a house of entertainment, and a 
blacksmith-shop in which he hired some 
strolling workmen to labour. These shops 
became the lesort of all the idlers in the 
community, and Nathan held forth to 
them daily on law, ethics, and politics. 
Among other things, he became a bailiff, 
and by his frequent visits to the distant 
court-house, augmented his influence and 
importance. He soon added another to 
his multifarious occupations, in the prose- 
cution of which he still kept in view the 
public good. He became a money-lender 
and a shaver of paper, in the discharge of 
'which business, he regulated himself by 
the wants of the borrower, endeavouring, 
as far as practicable, to carry out literally 
the language of Scripture, " from him that 
hath not shall be taken even that he hath." 
Thus did Nathan manufacture shoes, point 
coulters, and entertain strangers, charging 
only three prices for the same; thus did 
he serve process and shave bonds at fif- 
ty per centum discount, until he became 
a man of such vast consequence as to be 
appointed a justice of the peace. Then 
it was that he enlarged his garments and 
his house, put on a grave and sober face, 
became a severe and rigid moralist, and 
spoke as one having authority. Sons and 
daughters were born unto him, and in their 
early promise he to.ok a becoming pride. 
He joined the church, in which he was ap- 
pointed a ruling elder; took an active part 
in all public matters, and was the terror 
of all poor vagabonds far and near. The 
advice and conversation of such a man 
could not but be profitable and instruct- 
ive to old and young ; and as Nathan was 
aware of this, and deemed it a sin to hide 
his light under a bushel, his loud and com- 
manding voice was heard at every public 
gathering. At such places he was gener- 
ally the last comer; a proper regard for 
his own dignity requiring that he should 
cause himself to be waited for and observ- 
ed by all eyes when he came. It was 
therefore late on the day of '-the barring 
/but" mentioned in the last chapter when 
[Nathan arrived , at the Old-Field School. 
He heard a great shout just as he touched 
the verge of the field, and to his inexpress- 
ible mortification saw the Rev. Dr. Cald- 
1 well with the fieetness of a deer coursing 
'round the circuit of the " town." 

Beyond measure scandalized at what he 
saw he stood, himself unnoticed, gazing 
on the merry scene with feelings akin to 
those of Satan, when, from a lofty hill, he 
beheld with baneful eye the innocent de- 
lights of that glorious Eden which his 
hateful presence was to mar forever. He 
observed with pride that his own hopeful 
children, apparently disgusted with what 



was going on, had retired from the play t 
and seemed engaged in the amiable occu- 
pation of criticising the conduct of their 
friends. They were so engaged ; and just 
at this time, Edith Mayfield, running to 
catch a ball on which her upturned eyes 
were fixed, stumbled against and fell over 
Emily Glutson, and damaged the hitter's 
bonnet, the finest in the school. Edith, 
who was the worse hurt of the two, was 
soon on her feet, laughing at the accident, 
when a slap in the face by Emily's broth- 
er, accompanied by a harsh exclamation, 
changed her merriment to tears, and sent 
her off bitterly weeping. 

Henry Warden, observing her distress, 
and hearing in the crowd some remark 
about William Glutson, hastily enquired of 
every one around him what had happened. 
Dreading the consequences, his fellow- 
students endeavoured to disguise and pal- 
liate the matter to the'judge, whose sus- 
picions were still strengthened by the 
vague answers he received. He was in- 
stantly by the side of William Glutson, de- 
manding, in no gentle tones, an account of 
his conduct to Edith Mayfield. 

" Are you her protector V asked Glut- 
son, with a sneer, at the same time rising 
to his feet. 

"I am," was the emphatic response; 
"and you shall apologize this instant." 

" Not this week, nor ever, to such a milk- 
faced hero as you," replied the other. 

" Then, take that, and that !" said the 
judge, striking him several times in the 
face. 

Before Glutson had recovered himself 
sufficiently to return the blows, Warden, 
grappled by powerful arms, was thrown 
some distance on his back, and Ben Rust 
stood confronting his now furious antag- 
onist. The courage of the latter growing 
rapidly-at the prospect of an interference, 
he began to let loose a torrent of abuse, 
and, making an effort to get at his fallen 
enemy, his nose came into such violent 
contact with Ben's fist that the blood 
spurted out, and he yelled with pain and 
rage. 

" Very well !" coolly observed the keeper 
of the peace ; " when this you see, remem- 
ber me," and the ponderous weapon again 
brushed through Glut-son's face — Ben, with 
his right leg stuck out, gyrating several 
times on his left foot, and sweeping his arm 
through the air as if he were knocking 
down a circle of adversaries. 

These things all happened in a minute, 
and all the company, with Squire Glutsonl 
himself, were soon on the scene of battle. 
The old field being no place for the inves- ■ 
tigation of the affair, they adjourned to the 
house, and Warden and Glutson were prop- 
erly arraigned and put upon their trial. 

" My practice," said M'Bride, " is first to 
hear the parties themselves. I desire al- 



24 



ALAMANCE. 



ways to put the scholar on his or her hon- 
our, and to inculcate thus the habit of tell- 
ing the truth' even against themselves. 
William Glutson, stand up here and relate 
the facts connected with the fight between 
you and Henry Warden." ♦ 

His father, fumbling his watch-seals with 
his right hand, looked round with magiste- 
rial gravity and dignity as his son roundly 
told his story. 

"Because,"' said the latter, "because I 
would not take his insolence, Henry War- 
den struck me in the face, and but for 
your presence and that of my father I 
would have thrashed him like "a sack." 

"What insolence?" asked the master; 
"tell all that occurred." 

"Edith Mayfield ran over my sister, 
hurting her very much, and then making 
fun of her ; and, because I gave her a little 
lecture for'it, Henry Warden came to me 
in a very insulting manner, and demanded 
an # apology. I refused to give it, and he 
struck me." 

" Henry Warden, what have you to say !'' 
asked M'Bride. 

" Nothing, sir," answered the judge. 

" Come, sir, I want no insolence," said 
the master; "answer at once, what took 
place between you and William Glutson ?" 

" I do not mean to be insolent," replied 
Henry, " but I have no statement to make. 
I might contradict what has beCn said, and 
I had rather be punished for fighting than 
to be suspected of falsehood." 

The master, thinking that the judge was 
in a temporary pet, dismissed him for the 
present, and called Rust to the witness's 
stand. Ben told his story roundly, impli- 
cating no one, and leaving it extremely 
doubtful whether there had been a fight at 
all. His testimony not being entirely sat- 
isfactory to the master, the latter put va- 
rious questions to him for the purpose of 
eliciting the whole truth. 

"Did you," asked he, "see the com- 
mencement of the fight?" 

Rust. — "I can't say adzactly that I did." 

M'Bride. — " What was the first thing that 
you saw? Were the parties together]" 

Rust. — "When 1 first seed them, they 
were standin side-and-side, lookin sorter 
mad, though I could'nt possibly be pertic- 
ler as to that. Folks sometimes look grum, 
you know, when they are in a good hu- 
mour; and, as to. the matter of that, I 
never saw old Father Gruel look pleasin in 
my life. He eats his dinner as if it was 
epicac and salts, and " 

M'Bride.— "Never mind about Father 
Gruel. Did you hear any words pass?" 

Rust. — " Somthin ivas said after I got to 
them, but I didn't pay perticler attention 
to the compliments passed." 

M'Bride. — " Mr. Rust, remember what 
you say now you are bound in honour to say. 
You are not acting the part of an odious 



tell-tale, but of a witness whose evidence 
affects the welfare of your fellow- students. 
1 ask you now, for your own sake, and for 
the sake of these two boys, to tell all you 
know of the fight, its cause, its beginning, 
and its ending." 

Rust. — " Well, as I said -before, I heerd 
a sort of fuss or rumpus, and, lookin round, 
1 seed Henry Warden and Bill Glutson 
standin close together, and Henry's fis 
circulatin tolerably freely about Bill's face. 
They mout have been playin,but I thought 
I'd see the fun. When I got there, I put 
an end to it ; and so the game's oyer, and 
I don't know who won." 

M'Bride. — " Do you pretend to say there 
was no fight !" 

Rust (after musing a while). — " There 
was a little skrimmage, sir." 

M'Bride. — " How often did Henry War- 
den strike the other ?" 

Rust. — "Now, I don't know that he hit 
him ary time. 1 saw his fist travellin two 
or three times towards Bill's fate, but 
whether it called or passed by I can't say. 
lt"s not onlikely it knocked fur admission, 
as they say. at his mouth. He seemed to 
poke it into him faster than Bill could pack 
it away." 

M'Bride. — " Do you know of any cause 
of quarrel between the two? Had any t 
thing happened just before the fight to ir- 
ritate Henry Warden?" 

Rust. — " They say Bill Glutson struck 
Eddie Mayfield : butjthe others know more 
about that "than I do." 

Ben now had permission to resume his 
seat,- which he did with great gravity, hav- 
ing first made a profound bow to the mas- 
ter. Warden was again called on, and 
again refused to tell what he knew. Hav- 
ing never been chided by parent or teacher, 
his sensibility wounded to the quick by hi; 
present position, mortified that he was 
even suspected of wrong, and desirous of 
not calling on Edith Mayfield, no persua- 
sion could induce him to make a defence. 

"Henry," said M'Bride, at length, "I 
have a painful duty to perform. You have 
been my. best student, the pride of the 
school, and the boast of the neighbour- 
hood. No one has ever before raised an 
accusing voice against you, but discipline 
must be enforced. By the testimony of 
others, and by your own mute confession, 
you are guilty of a heinous misdemeanour, 
and until you sincerely repent, you must 
be excluded, as unworthy, from my peace- 
ful fold. With tears I blot your name " 

"Hold!" exclaimed Nathan Glutson;. 
" you are too severe, my worthy friend. 
If I might be allowed," continued he, ris- 
ing with dignity, " if I might be allowed to 
give my humble opinion, I would advise 
that the culprit be soundly whipped and 
forgiven for his recent offence, i am sure 
my son would be satisfied with this. The 



ALAMANCE. 



25 



in 



boy is giddy, and may have a touch of his 
father's infirmity;" and Nathan paused 
and looked round for approbation. His 
good counsel was, however, thrown away; 
for something very much Jike disgust was 
visible in every face. As for the judge — 
his burning soul flashing through his eyes 
with a dignity, it may even be said, with 
a grandeur of manner that impressed the 
whole assembly — he declared that he never 
•would survive such a chastisement as that 
recommended, at the hands of any but a 
parent. 

" The whip," he cried, " is for the back 
of the sluggard and the mean-spirited. As 
for that man," he continued, gazing on 
Nathan Glutson with a sternness that dis- 
composed his nerves, " he is a hypocrite 
and a slanderer; the tyrant of the weak, 
and the slave of the strong! And now," 
said he, his great heart swelling within 
him, " my teacher, the Glutsons, and the 
world may do its worst, for I shall ask 
pardon and m^rcy of none but God !" 

Thus spoke the descendant of a puritan, 
and the protege of the famous Dr. Cald- 

ell. He Was mistaken, though, in think- 
ing the world his enemy. That little part 
of it in which he was then acting the early 
hero loved and respected him, and boys 
and girls clustered around him, endeav- 
ouring to soothe his chafed and wounded 
spirit. Even the parson and master ex- 
changed secret glances of admiration; and 
the sympathies of Uncle Corny became so 
much excited that it would have been dan- 
gerous for any one to have attempted to 
lay rough hands on the judge. As for Na- 
than, he was, in vulgar phrase, greatly 
flurried and hurt in feeling, and was about 
to begin a speech, when he was stopped 
by the silver voice Qf Edith Mayfield. The 
girl, catching the feeling that animated 
Henry Warden, came forward, covered 
with blushes, and told her simple story. 
She was listened to in breathless silence, 
and her tale acquitted the judge in the 
hearts of all but the Glutsons. The repre- 
sentative and pater -familias of that ilk 
could now no longer nestrain his indigna- 
tion, which blazed in crimson glory over 
his sharp and ruddy face, flashed in con- 
suming majesty from his small, round, 
gray eyes, and poured in torrents of per- 
spiration over his square and narrow fore- 
head. 

" Sir, Mr. M'Bride, and gentlemen, this 
is too bad !" he exclaimed ; is my son to 
be discredited, my counsel despised!" 

" Suffer me to interrupt you, Mr. Glut- 
son," interposed M'Bride ; " the trial is 
over, and Henry Warden is honourably 
acquitted." 

" What !" thundered the enraged justice 
of the peace ; " is this the way justice is 
administered! Is this little jade, the sweet- 
heart, no doubt " 



" Silence !" now thundered the master in 
his turn. "Mr. Glutson, this is my school- 
house, and these are my students. I am 
here judge and jur)', and my authority 
there is none to dispute. If I have per- 
mitted you to speak at all it was not be- 
cause I wanted your opinion, but simply 
as a mark of respect to one of my worthy 
patrons. "You are now taking unbecom- 
ing liberties with the character of my pu- 
pils, whiclTis as dear to me as my own, 
and which I will defend with my life. God 
forbid that I should chastise a gallant boy 
for resenting and punishing a wanton insult 
to an innocent girl ! Take your seat, sir, 
instantly, or leave the house !" 

This command was not to be disobeyed, 
and taking his children, William and Emi- 
ly, Nathan slowly withdrew and shook off 
the dust of his feet against the. school of 
Alamance. Children, teacher, and parents, 
seemed to breathe more freely after his 
departure, and the confections left in the 
morning were discussed with a lively ani- 
mation. The roll was then called, and the 
Rev. Dr. Caldwell rose to make a few re- 
marks. His discourse was short, simple, 
and sensible, and listened to with profound 
and respectful attention. The reverend 
gentleman was, without effort or ostenta- 
tious display, eloquent and pathetic, and 
brought tears from more than one ingenu- 
ous youth. In conclusion, he touched 
slightly upon the gathering dangers of the 
times, spoke of a coming crisis, and ex- 
horted his young friends to emulate the 
example of their ancestors, who had sealed 
with their blood their devotion to civil and 
religious liberty. A fervent prayer was 
then offered to the Throne of Grace, and 
thus ended the ceremonies of the day. 

" A day," says the master in his mem- 
oranda, " famous in the annals of Ala- 
mance, as on it the shadows of important 
coming events were clearly visible." 

What these events were we shall see in 
the sequel; and, in the mean time, it is wor- 
thy of mention, that as Henry Warden took 
leave of Edith he dropped into her basket 
a note, which, when out of sight, she 
opened and read as follows : 

" Beware of the Glutsons ; believe no 
prejudicial story about me, and remember 
I am your sincere friend forever. What- 
ever happens, or wherever I may happen 
to be, know that you are not forgotten." 

The contents puzzled her no little, and 
so she went home pondering on them. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A CHRISTMAS DINNER AT ALAMANCE. 

" Eddie, my daughter," said Mr. May- 
field, on the night before Christmas, " to- 
morrow there is to be a great party at 



ALAMANCE. 



Warden's, and I wish to give you some 
advice in relation to your conduct there. 
You are my only child and heir, the sole 
representative of my house, and in you 
its honour must be sustained." 

"Why do you talk so, father?" replied 
the girl ; " have 1 ever disobeyed you in 
any thing?" 

" Never, my darling, when you knew 
my- wishes; and 1 am now going to ex- 
plain them to you fully, so that you may 
know how to act in future. Come and 
kiss me, and I'll begin." 

Edith, seating herself in her father's lap, 
and throwing her arms about his neck, 
fondly kissed him, when he thus proceed- 
ed : — 

" It's dangerous, daughter, to form early 
attachments, friendly or otherwise. We 
cannot tell when young, what is most for 
our interest; and I have known persons 
to be unsuccessful and hampered all their 
lives by intimacies they formed when 
young, and which they could not get over." 

"But, father, we ought not to choose 
our friends from interested motives," said 
Edith ; " and I thought attachments form- 
ed when we are children were the purest, 
because our hearts are then better than 
they are when we grow older." 

" It's an old and idle tale," answered 
Mayfield ; " and no sensible people believe 
it. It's a sickly sentiment, the mere cant 
of poets and visionaries." 

" What is a visionary V asked the daugh- 
ter. 

" A visionary, child, is one whose imagi- 
nation is stronger than his judgement, and 
who mistakes the whims and dreams of 
his fancy for the conclusions of reason. 
Henry Warden is a visionary, and has, I 
fear, been tutoring you." 

" Indeed he has not, father," answered 
Edith, with animation ; " he never taught 
me any thing but what was right, and he 
talks more sensibly than any one I ever 
heard." 

" So you may think now," rejoined the 
father ; " for you are yet unable to answer 
his sophisms, and to see the absurdity of 
hi3 fine-spun theories. My love, you must 
not be so intimate with Henry. He is a 
good boy, generous, just, and brave ; but 
he is, as I said, a visionary, and he may 
instil into your mind philosophy that is 
dangerous. Besides, people are beginning 
to think you and he are fond of each other ; 
and that affair of to-day will make a great 
noise. If it is thought a girl is in love, i*t 
keeps off suitors — and " 

"I want no suitors," exclaimed Edith, 
rather pettishly, hiding her head in her 
father's bosom. 

" But you will want them some day," 
said the old man ; " and for this very rea- 
son you must not suffer them to come about 
you now. If you are too free with Henry 



Warden, you may never have any beau 
but him; and that will be a pretty tale to 
tell of the beauliful and accomplished 
daughter of the rich Isaiah Mayfield, Esq. 
I want you, some day, to be the belle of 
Alamance ; and after a brilliant career, to 
marry worthy of yourself and of me. To- 
morrow, therefore, you must be cautiou3 
and circumspect towards Henry Warden. 
Every body will be observing you and him ; 
and you will be the general talk of the 
neighbourhood, if you don't take care." 

" Father," said Edith, with tears in her 
eyes, " if it will please you, I will never 
speak to Henry again." 

" But it. won't please me ; that is the 
very thing I don't want you to do. You 
must not quarrel with him, nor show by 
your manners and conversation that you 
think enough of him to get into a pet about 
him or with him. When you speak of 
him, do it freely, lightly, and kindly ; when 
you speak to him, do it with a formal po- 
liteness, a cold cordiality^ a reserved re- 
spect. Talk to him familiarly, but not 
confidentially ; do not smile, but laugh 
loud and carelessly ; and when you look 
at him, gaze as earnestly as you please, 
but let there be no meaning or expression 
in your eyes. You may think this strange 
advice, but your father knows what is best 
for you, and his object is to do it. Poor 
Henry ! I am sorry for him." 

Edith was, too, but she did not say so ; 
and, in fact, her commiseration arose from 
a very different reason from that which 
prompted her father's. The latter knew 
exactly the sum total of George War- 
den's debts ; and though just, honourable, 
and honest, 

" He had a frugal mind.". 

He was one of those sedate, moral, and 
careful souls who, though they cheat no- 
body, have no real affection for any th,ing 
but money, and who, although respected 
by all, are loved by no one ; who are non- 
committal on everything but pounds, shil- 
lings, and pence ; who risk nothing in he- 
half of their best friend but advice ; and 
who graduate their esteem, and regulate 
their bows by the length of their neigh- 
bours' purses. They are kind, good peo- 
ple ; so says every body : they are forms 
of uncompounded selfishness; animated 
statues of stone; walking and speaking 
automatons, whose negative virtues are 
often worse than positive vices ; so thinks 
every body. They believe they were sent 
here for no other purpose than to take care 
of themselves; and leaving that fair sam- 
ple of the fraternity, Isaiah Mayfield, fully 
absorbed in this judicious and pleasing oc- 
cupation, we will proceed with our history. 
The mansion of George Warden was 
considered in its day as a fine specimen of 
architectural beauty, and its great age evi- 



ALAMANCE. 



97 



denced the attachment felt for it by the 
descendants of the builder. Jt was, how- 
ever, too long, too low, and to wide to suit 
the more polished modern taste ; had too 
many sheds, porches, and passages ; and 
had, withal, windows on the roof to light 
the garret. It was situated on the brow 
of a long hill, and surrounded by oaks and 
walnuts, whose brawny arms had buffetted 
with the storms of a century, and inter- 
spersed with which were catalbers, locusts, 
and cedars of a smaller growth. From the 
great gate in front, a lane led. down the 
hill to the creek of Liitle Alamance, and 
on the right and left of the bridge crossing 
the creek were large and level meadows 
dotted over with an occasional elm or pop- 
lar. A row of old and stately sycamores 
lined each side of the lane from the gate 
to the creek, and broad and well-cultivated 
fields were everywhere in view. The 
great gate stands open to-day, and a troop 
of negro children are lounging about it, 
ready to clamour " Christmas-gift" to each 
new-comer, and to take his horse ; a large 
log-fire is blazing in the hall, and serv- 
ants are running to and fro in busy prep- 
aration. • 

Old black Ben, with a solemn and por- 
tentous look and an air of authority, is 
everywhere in general and nowhere in 
particular; now rectifying the fires, now 
watching the progress of the egg-beaters, 
and occasionally at the gate, scolding at 
the mischievous boys and looking wistfuily 
down the lane. The quiet of the morning 
is soon disturbed by a great hubbub, and 
'the guests come pouring in, till the hall is 
filled. George Warden is to-day unusually 
gay, and captivates his guests with that 
lively and witty discourse for which, in his 
happy moments, he was more remarkable 
than any man of his time. Every trace of 
pride has vanished from his handsome but 
aristocratic face, every drop of acid seems 
purged from his temper, and on all subjects, 
except the literature of the Greeks and Ro- 
mans, he is a full match for the master and 
the parson. " His ancient, drouthy, trusty 
crony,' 1 Corny Demijohn, listens with both 
his ears, and stares with both his eyes, his 
heart all the while dancing within him to 
the ravishing music of Warden's voice, and 
his thundering laugh exploding at regular 
intervals like signal-guns or salutes of ar- 
tillery. Mrs. Warden is also cheerful; but 
slight lines of care are visible in her noble 
face, and her stately form has lost some 
of its majesty by the blight of premature 
age. She welcomes her guests, however, 
with a smile, and sends a warm sunshine 
through every breast. Her three children 
are petted and caressed by every one. 
Henry sits surrounded by the old men, 
who find in him an attentive listener to 
their reminiscences of the men and events 
of by-gone times. Kate, the second child, 



is " spoke for" by all the young men, and in- 
cessantly kissed by all the old maids, while 
Wash, sturdy little Wash, a miniature 
hero, is the butt of all the sharp shooters, 
upon whom he occasionally turns the ta- 
bles and creates roars of laughter by his 
witty sallies. Thus things were progress- 
ing within the hall, when shouts and bois- 
terous laughter in. the yard brought the 
crowd to the doors and windows. Emerg- 
ing from one of the negro cabins, there 
came, in a sort of running dance, and sur- 
rounded by a rout of negroes, children, and 
barking dogs, two fantastic figures "in 
shape and stature" unlike any thing upon 
or under the surface of the earth. They 
were male and female, and as loving as a 
married couple during the honeymoon. 
The former bore some slight resemblance 
to an enormous monkey, walking erect, 
having on his face a mask to suit, the char- 
acter, and a black bearskin cap upon his 
head, while there trailed behind him along 
and magnificent tail. The other had not 
the pendulous ornament that' so graced 
herjjartner, nor were the Egyptian beau- 
ties of her face concealed. The graceful 
rotundity of a fat ankle peeped from un- 
der her short petticoats, a huge turban 
waved upon her head, and a vast prom- 
ontory behind indicated the presence of an 
article of dress which has since become 
the glory of modern belles. Each was 
bedizened with party-coloured rags and 
strips of striped cloth that waved and flut- 
tered in the breeze, and attached to which 
bunches of rusty nails kept up a low, jing- 
ling music. 

" Clear the way for John O'Cooner and 
his wife !" some one cried ; and on they 
came, singing as none but negroes can 
sing, old John O'Cooner's song. 

A ring had been formed, and within it, 
while singing, John O'Cooner and his wife 
immortalized their legs by feats which 
would astonish Ellsler or Celeste. The 
gallant gentleman, without missing a step, 
made frequent efforts to kiss his spouse, 
while she, coy as a maiden of sweet six- 
teen and active as a roe, would baffle his 
attempts, and sidle, with mincing airs, to- 
wards grinning and bashful young negroes, 
whom, for his wife's partialities, John 
would send rolling on their backs in the 
dirt. Sometimes a sedate old bachelor 
among the white men would be the object 
of Dinah's favours, and then, while the gen- 
tleman blushed and ran, the crowd huzzaed 
and shouted. Uncle Corny seemed to be 
her greatest favourite, and from place to 
place she pursued that solemn bachelor, 
whose troubles excited little sympathy 
among his friends. Small bits of coin were 
showered on the hard ground and miracu- 
lously gathered in a pile between the 
dancers, and as miraculously disappeared. 
While, however, Dinah was annoying the 



28 



ALAMANCE. 



timid gentlemen with her attentions, her 
spouse was prodigiously troubled to pre- 
serve his tail sacred from the rude touch 
of mischievous boys, until, at length, that 
glory of his "hinder side" having disap- 
peared, old John and his partner retreated 
to the kitchen, there to enjoy, with their 
fellow-servants, their Christmas grog, and 
to divide the spoils — one half of which went 
to John's mother, an aged and decrepit 
negress. 

Shall we describe the sumptuous dinner 
prepared by Mrs. Warden for her guests, 
and how it was duly honoured 1 Need we 
describe t.he great bowl of eggnogg which 
stood in the centre of the table, and from 
which the glasses of the old men were 
often filled, while those of the young 
were emptied only once ? Need we tell 
that, after dinner, old Ben, with his pupil 
Ike, scraped more music from their fiddles 
than they had ever done before ] — that the 
young folks romped, tried their fortunes, 
and practised (the male ones) with iheir 
rifles ; ancf that the old ones smoked, told 
long stories, and discussed the signs of the 
times? Can we relate the troubles of 
Uncle Corny with the frolic-loving girls, 
the antics of Rust, or the discussions of 
the parson and master, who fell into a fu- 
rious dispute about the Greek particles, 
and each of whom would often appeal to 
Dixon Tubroot, who was listening with 
edifying attention, and who understood as 
much of the matter as Sancho's ass did of 
his master's conversation 1 

Lo ! all these things, together with what 
befel sundry diffident lovers, are written in 
the Book of the Chronicles of Christmas at 
Alamance. It is, however, not recorded 
there that Nathan Glutson had the temer- 
ity to be present at this party, and that he 
was the mildest, the smoothest, and most 
sweet-tempered man in the assembly — 
meekly apologized to Warden for the re- 
mark he had made concerning him the day 
before, and cultivated Henry with devoted 
assiduity. Nor do the Chronicles relate 
the unhappiness of Isaiah Mayfield during 
the day, and the anxiety with which he 
watched his daughter. It was not to be 
expected that Edith, young, artless, and 
ingenuous, could act the cunning world- 
ling's part, and, at her first essay, she 
made a total failure. Recollecting her fa- 
ther's advice, and endeavouring to con- 
form to his wishes, she met. Henry War- 
den with coldness and reserve, excited his 
suspicions by her conduct, and finally had 
a quarrel with him, after which they spoke 
no more to each other during the day. 
The judge never could catch Edith's eye, 
though he looked often towards her; Edith 
remarked, also, that she never met the 
glance of Henry, though her eyes were 
bent not unfrequently on his face. Edith's 
father however, saw with lively sorrow 



that she and Henry were both sad and ab- 
stracted: he saw that their eyes turned in- 
cessantly towards'each other, and he ob- 
served that once, when their glances met 
for an instant, each seemed startled and 
confused. His speculations, painful and 
profound, on the incidents of the day were 
at last interrupted by the arrival of a stran- 
ger. The new-comer was a gentleman of 
at least thirty, rail, muscular, and richly 
dressed, and seemed, by his air and man- 
ner, to have been accustomed to the ex- 
ercise of authority. His features were 
harsh and prominent, and his complexion 
swarthy, while a deep scar upon his left 
temple added to the severity of a face 
whose expression denoted a fierce and tur- 
bulent disposition. The stranger at once 
enquired for Nathan Glutson, to whom he 
handed a letter, and who, after its perusal, 
introduced him to the company as a Mr. 
Ross, a gentleman of character and conse- 
quence, from a distant part of the province. 
As soon as this ceremony was over. Glut- 
son, with his new friend, departed for hia 
residence, leaving the assembled crowd to 
speculate on the stranger's appearance and 
his business. • 

" My friends," said the Rev. Dr. Cald- 
well, solemnly, "the times are dangerous, 
and it becometh every man to be watchful. 
I grieve to say it, but the love of truth and 
of my country compels me to declare to' 
you that 1 like not Nathan Glutson. I be- 
lieve he is unfriendly to the righteous cause 
of the colonies, and I believe this new 
friend of his is an emissary from our pres- 
ent wicked governor. Great events are 
on the wing — a mighty contest is approach- 
ing, and the sword alone can decide it. I 
will not conceal from you my full convic- 
tion that war is inevitable, and it will be a 
war of many horrors. Not only will we 
have to fight a great nation, a nation who 
hate us as rebels and traitors, but our 
friends and neighbours will lift their hands 
against us. Brother will be against broth- 
er — houses will be divided against them- 
selves, and kindred will shed the blood of 
their relations. A long, a fierce, a terrible 
conflict is before us — sufferings and trials 
such as the early martyrs endured will be 
our portion. We must choose these, or 
we must choose slavery; we must surren- 
der our lives, or our liberties and our reli- 
gion. Who will, then, be for his country 
and his God 1 Who is prepared lo survive 
or perish with the glorious cause? Let 
him stand up now, that I may see who will 
play the coward or the recreant at Ala- 
mance !" 

. There was a momentary silence and 
hesitation; when Hector M'Bride sprung 
to his feet, and instantly followed Henry 
Warden and his father, Corny Demijohn, 
Rust, who got upon a chair, Black Ben, 
and then all, old and young, male and 



ALAMANCE. 



29 



female, excepting only Tsaiah Mayfield, 
whose painful doubts M' Bride solved by 
lifting him to his feet and holding him- in 
thiit position. The evening gloaming was 
coming on, and the influence of that still 
and twilight hour was felt. 

"And now," continued the reverend pa- 
triot, slowly and impressively, "we do 
here, in the presence of each other, and 
before Heaven's high chancery, pledge 
ourselves to stand by our country and by 
our rights, at every hazard, and at the risk 
of health, property, and life itself. Out- 
vow is recorded in heaven, and may the 
God of battles be with us in the day of our 
trial!" 

"Amen!" responded many voices, and 
immediately there arose in the yard a strain 
of wild and plaintive melody that melted 
6oftly into the heart of every hearer. It 
was one of those simple and pathetic airs 
so common among the negroes of the 
South, and which, to those who have been 
accustomed to them in their youth, come 
like the music of Caryl, "sweet hut mourn- 
ful to the soul," waking in their breasts in 
e^*ery clime, at every age, and in the midst 
of the busy pursuits of avarice, and ambi- 
tion, recollections, sad and tender, of the 
homes of their childhood and of their thou- 
sand hallowed associations, of scattered 
friends, of parental smiles, and of the mer- 
ry and dear old times that are gone. 
Louder, richer, and more melodious swell 
ed that strain »now sung by the mellow 
voices of many sable minstrels, till many 
an aged cheek was moist with tears, and 
withered hands were locked in friendly 
embrace, in memory " o 1 auld tang syne." 
As the last notes, more solemn, soft, and 
pathetic, died away, the Alamancers took 
a silent and affectionate leave of each oth- 
er, the old full of reminiscences of the past, 
the yomig of bright anticipations for the 
future. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 

Henry Warden retired on Christmas 
■night to a sleepless couch. The early 
beams of the morning had gladdened no 
bappier heart than his ; the shadows of the 
succeeding night summoned to rest no one 
more wretched. For the first time in his 
life he began to reflect on the strange 
anomalies in human nature, and, with emo- 
tions difficult to express, he read a new 
page in the book of life. He was affected 
by the conduct of Edith Mayfield more 
than he chose to acknowledge even to him- 
self: and for a while giddy with the new 
train of thoughts which her conduct in- 
spired, he gave himself up to the most 
gloomy reflections. The behaviour of 



Edith indicated a disposition that aston- 
ished him ; and if, thought he, such be the 
character of the purest and best, what is 
woman I Alternations of light and dark- 
ness flitted through his mind, but the fitful 
gleams of hope seemed only to deepen the 
quick-succeeding gloom, even as the lucid 
interval in the fevered patient's dream 
serves only to enhance the*frightful hor- 
rors of his perturbed fancy. 

He ran over in his mind the whole his- 
tory of his acquaintances with Edith, en- 
deavouring to recollect all her kind words, 
looks, and actions, to satisfy himself that 
she once had liked him more than she did 
any other. He thought if she had former- 
ly preferred him her recent conduct was 
caused by jealousy, or some private pique, 
and was not, therefore, so much to be re- 
gretted. As soon, however, as he persuad- 
ed himself into a belief of her attachment, 
the whole fabric of evidence would dis- 
solve and melt away, and leave him bit- 
terly lamenting that he had been the dupe 
of his own fancy. Then, the sooner he 
could forget her the better. So he reason- 
ed ; but as soon as he came to this conclu- 
sion he would be shocked at the idea of 
quitting the society and losing the friend- 
ship of one who, from childhood, had. 
shared all his thoughts. The dissolution 
of ties thus formed would, he felt, sever 
every other that bound him to the world, 
and make him mistrust, if not actually 
hate, all .his kind. Thus troubled, the 
night was far spent when he fell into an 
unquiet sleep. With the morning came 
fresher feelings and calmer counsels, and 
Henry was astonished at his misgivings 
and irresolution on the night before. His 
determination was quickly formed, and he 
was confident that he wouid soon come to 
a good understanding with Edith. That 
day, however, she did not come to school, 
nor the next, nor the next. Impatient at 
last to see her, he persuaded M^Bride to ac- 
company him, on Saturday, to her father's. 
He there, to his great surprise, found Will- 
iam Glutson and Mr. Ross, the former of 
whom seemed to be on excellent terms 
with Squire Mayfield, while the latter was 
paying not unacceptable attentions to the 
daughter. Henry was greeted coldly by 
Edith, politely by her father, and warmly 
and kindly by Mrs. Mayfield, whose man- 
ner seemed more cordial to him than it 
had ever been before. The judge, usually 
slow and cautious in forming his opin 
ions, was hasty, firm, and decided when 
his judgment was fixed, v and threats and 
persuasions were alike unavailing to move 
him. 

His determination was fixed the mo- 
ment he saw Edith, and that, was, to de 
clare himself a lover, and know at once 
her opinion of him. For the first time he 
acknowledged to himself that he did love 



30 



ALAMANCE. 



her, and as he gazed on her while in ani- 
mated conversation with Ross, he wonder- 
ed that he had never before known how 
enchanting!)" sweet were those smiles now 
lavished on another, nor remarked on the 
beauty of her face and the grace of her 
figure. In fact, he had seen before only 
her mind and her heart, and held commu- 
nion with thern ; but now that these were 
estranged from him, he looked with admi- 
ration on the fair casket which contained 
the jewel now locked from his sight. 

Edith had not reached her fifteenth year, 
but mind and body had been of rapid 
growth. Her figure, though slight, was 
beginning to round with full proportions, 
and she was in that delightful state where 
the traces of the girl are fading and the 
budding woman begins to appear. Her 
form, cast in a mould rather slender, was 
perfectly symmetrical, and herlight, bound- 
ing step showed that, though delicate, her 
constitution was not frail. Her features, 
though not entirely regular, were of the 
Grecian cast, except her lips, which were 
rather of the pouting Egyptian order, and 
through which, when parted, were dis- 
placed two rows of diminutive teeth, which 
the nicest judge would have taken for pearl. 
Her complexion, which was a light bru- 
nette, looked whiter by its contrast with 
her dark, luxuriant hair, which fell over a 
round, smooth, and slender neck, and sha- 
ded the ever-fresh roses in her velvet 
cheeks. The crowning glory of her face, 
however, was the expression, more intel- 
lectual than passionate, and more etherial 
than intellectual, lent to it by her large 
and tender eyes.* These were of a hazel 
colour, were very slightly convex, and 
gleamed with a perpetual sparkle, express- 
ing more eloquently than words could do the 
bright fancies and the innocent thoughts 
of a heart stainless as her own marble 
brow ; of a soul where dwelt truth, tender- 
ness, and sensibility. It was impossible to 
look on such a creature without feeling an 
interest in her, and Henry Warden felt, that 
he had rather not live at all than to live an 
exile from her society. Here was the sun 
of his soul, and only in its light could he 
be happy; and yet, with the whimsical ca- 
price o.' those in his situation, when the 
subject of love was introduced, he ridiculed 
the passion, as the offspring of weak minds 
and of distempered fancies. He was in a 
whirl of excitement, intoxicated with emo- 
tion, and scarcely knew what he said, and 
yet never had he been so witty or so elo- 
quent. 

" And do you not believe that there is 
such a thing as love 1" asked Ross. 

''There is," answered the judge, "a ten- 
der, refined, and sublime sentiment which 
proves the immortality of the soul in which 
it springs, for it is boundless and insatiable 
in its desires, and endless in duration. It 



is, in fact, the incense of an immortal 
spirit, a spark kindled from a celestial 
source, and marking the heart in which it 
burns as an altar sanctified by the Deity 
for the holiest offerings. Perhaps all of 
our race — the male portion of it at least — 
are capable of this sentiment. In some, 
however, the flame, when excited, burns 
feebly and dimly, and in others the latent 
heat is so smothered by the intense selfish- 
ness of their natures that it can never be 
developed. Fire is said to be an element 
existing to some extent in every substance; 
but who can strike sparks from ice, or 
kindle love in woman!" 

"If she have a soul — and I sometimes 
doubt it — its higher attributes are, like her 
personal charms in a fashionable dress, en- 
tirely concealed and distorted by the freaks 
of a capricious fancy." 

" I must defend the ladies from your as- 
persions," replied Ross ; " I will not an- 
swer by arguments, but by facts— facts 
which 1 know of my own knowledge. I 
have seen instances of attachment in wom- 
en whose devotion was proved by the se- 
verest trials, and whose disinterestedness 
was shown by the unworthiness and cruel- 
ty of the objects of their love." 

" And that," said the judge, " only proves 
my rule. Woman may love, for she is capa- 
ble of the passion ; but did a gentleman ever 
inspire it in her? Is she not a bundle of 
such singular absurdities that her love and 
her hatred are always alike misplaced T I 
sometimes think she is a sort of living 
phenomenon intended to represent all the 
passions — a genuine Pandora's box — a 
piece of patchwork made up of the odds 
and ends of all animals in creation — a sort 
of menagerie in herself, where the dove 
and the kite, the serpent and the sparrow, 
the gilded butterfly and the unsightly bat, 
the gluttonous sloth and the air-feeding 
chamelion, are all exhibited. It is a free 
show, except in some cases, when a nup- 
tial ring is necessary to gain admission be- 
hind the scenes where the wolf and virago 
play their pranks." 

" Now I know you are jesting," exclaim- 
ed Ross," for it is impossible that one so 
young, and with your face, can have a 
heart so bitter. You have, perhaps, been 
disappointed, and vent your spleen in 
charges, which you do not believe, on all 
the sex." 

" I may be wrong," replied Henry War- 
den, " and, to tell you the truth, I hope I 
am. I have sometimes dreamed that I 
might yet find a creature, gentle, tender, 
and fair, with a bright, immortal soul, and 
a heart where pure, fervent, and eternal 
love will dwell, growing brighter and 
brighter amid the trials of life and the 
frowns of adversity. I once believed that 
such would be my fate, and sweet was that 
dream of my early boyhood ! It was, I 



ALAMANCE. 



fear, a mere dream. The full fruition of 
such love would equal the joys of the pri- 
meval Eden, and we are told that a flam- 
ing sword forever guards that Paradise 
against the entrance of fallen and sinful 
mortals." 

As he spoke, his eye, for an instant, 
caught that of Edith, and there was a mean- 
ing in her glance and a slight glbw upon 
her cheek. She immediately left the room, 
and, when she returned, her manner was 
again cold and formal towards her former 
friend. The judge could get no opportu- 
nity to carry out. his purpose, and, resolv- 
ing to write, he and M'Bride, after a rather 
dull and cheerless dinner, took the road to 
Warden's. On the way the judge opened 
his heart to the master, and declared his 
intention of writing to Edith. 

"Be guided by me," said the master, 
" and do not be guilty of such folly. For 
the present, at least, your suit will be hope- 
less." 

The Judge. — " Do you think, then, she 
is pleased with Ross V 

The Master. — " By no means : but I 
know that he is pleased with her. My 
young friend, I wish you to listen atten- 
tively to what I say, and remember I speak 
for your good. Old Mayfield is a man of 
correct principles and honest, purposes, but 
he has not the nerve, moral or physical, to 
pursue or defend the right, when there is 
the least opposition. He is devoted to pol- 
icy, or, rather, if I may say so of a good 
man, to cunning, and squares his life by a 
few worldly maxims. Such a one may be 
successful and popular in the ' piping times 
of peace,' but becomes utterly contempti- 
ble in a crisis. A crisis has arrived, and 
our friend Mayfield begins to waver like a 
reed in the wind." 

The Judge. — "But what is all this to the 
purpose ?" 

The Master. — " Listen, and you will see. 
A w^arwith England is inevitable — a long. 
a bloody, and a trying war. It has already 
begun, and it will end only with the exter- 
mination of the patriots or the independ- 
ence of these colonies. Mayfield sees 
the coming storm, and he is beginning to 
trim and shift his sails to suit every wind. 
His heart is with us, but he wants, in the 
end, to be in favour with the winning side. 
Did you observe his conduct to Ross and 
to Ross's friend, Glutson, who struck Edith 
the other day?" 

The Judge. — " I did, and I was aston- 
ished." 

The Master. — "I was not. This man, 
Ross, is from the Scotch settlements, and 
his business is to attend to the interests of 
the royalists. Nathan Glutson is, beyond 
all question, opposed to the patriots"; he 
is, no doubt, known to the governor, and 
he is to give Ross such information as he 
may want. Glutson knows the character 



of Mayfield ; he has made his son apologize 
for his conduct to Edith, and has sent Ross 
there to win the old man over. The 
Scotchman, I believe, has fallen in love, 
and is about to forget, his business: and 
Mayfield, to whom he has talked, has ob- 
served his attachment and rejoices at it. 
He is undertaking a deep and heartless 
game — he will himself cultivate the patri- 
ots, and he intends that his daughter shall 
conciliate the royalists." 

The Judge, passionately. — " Then Edith 
is to be sacrificed !" 

The Master. — "By no means. Old May- 
field intends that this suit s'hall be in prog- 
ress during the war. At its end, if we are 
successful, Ross's hopes are blasted ; if we 
are defeated, Edith will have you, if she 
loves you. My friend, forget her, at least 
for the present." 

The Judge. — "I cannot; I would not, if 
I could." 

The Master. — " Remember your own 
conversation of this morning. One con- 
stituted as you are should never love, for 
it will lead you to unutterable misery. 
Your passion will not be requited — it can- 
not be by any woman on earth." 

The Judge. — "I would fain believe I was 
wrong this morning; and, indeed, I had 
rather be dead" than to believe fully what 
I then said. Let me at least have faith, 
and hope, for what would life be without 
them?" 

The Master — "The beginning of happi- 
ness — such happiness as grows on this 
barren earth — is skepticism. Credulity is 
the parent of love, and love is a delirium 
that injures all — wrecks many. See the 
loorld as it is and love nothing, and you 
will then be really wise, and wisdom is 
peace." 

The Judge.—" Sir, let me remain in ig- 
norance forever, if such be the wretched- 
ness of wisdom. But it cannot be so, else 
why did our Creator endow us with such 
capabilities?" 

The Master. — " Our Maker did not de- 
sign that man's sublimest passion should 
be wasted on vain and perishable things. 
All must learn this at last. I have learn- 
ed it by bitter experience, and it is on this 
account I obtrude my advice upon you. I 
wish to teach you what experience sooner 
or later will certainly teach you, that God, 
and the great and good works in which he 
delights, must engage those tender and 
lofty sentiments of which you are capable, 
and which you are offering now at the 
shrine of a dumb and senseless idol. la 
the. infancy of the world the nations wor- 
shipped gods of wood and stone, the work 
of their own hands ; even thus all men, 
when young, offer the pure adoration of 
their hearts upon the altar of deities blind 
as Baal and Dagon, and which their own 
distempered fancies have created and made 



33 



ALAMANCE. 



divine. "When, as they will at last, their 
eyes open, and the altar and the god sink 
together, the disappointed votary destroys 
himself, or returns to the true God and to 
his everlasting purposes, and finds an an- 
chor for his soul. This Deity is now en- 
gaged in one of his mighty works, and to 
that you should' wed your heart." 

The Judge. — " Will this work fill the 
boundless measure of my love 1 ? Can it 
satisfy the cravings of the soul after the 
great, the grand, and beautiful!" 

The Master.—" It will ! it will ! It is the 
sublimest, the noblest cause that ever yet 
engaged the affections of men. It is the 
great cause of the human race, now about 
to burst its fetters and assert its high pre- 
rogative ! Prometheus is about to break 
his bonds ; man is going to claim his 
rights ! 1 see before me, in the dim future, 
a glorious spectacle ; I see a new earth, 
and a new people ; a great, a noble, and a 
mighty race, whose faces shine with the 
majesty of freemen ; and tyrants and their 
slaves lie buried in the wrecks of the 
past!" 

The Judge. — " Are you not dreaming ? 
I suspect that even you are sometimes 
captivated by the creations of your own 
fancy." 

The Master. — " Henry, I am not an en- 
thusiast, I hope. 1 have had a varied 
experience, and the frosts of more than 
thirty-five winters have cooled the fires of 
fancy. I have seen much — I have read 
much — I have thought much* J have, too, 
enjoyed the friendship and listened to the 
conversation of one whose name will be a 
light and a glory to all future, ages. I al- 
lude to Dr. Benjamin Franklin, who, with 
me, believes that a new era is about to 
dawn. A great revolution is about to be 
achieved, and those who assist in effecting 
it will be revered through all coming time. 
In this glorious cause I wish you to enlist. ; 
I wish you to show what you are, kin- 
dred with the other mighty spirits that are 
blended in a union sublime. Will you 
dedicate yourself to the work?" 

The eyes of the judge filling with tears, 
he silently took the hand of his friend, and 
for a moment neither spoke. 

"I understand you," said the master at 
length; "and now that your purpose is 
fixed, I will show you the importance of 
forgetting Edith by a chapter of my own 
experience. I will, if you will have the 
patience to listen, give you a sketch of 
my life; and you will see that, though it 
has been like that of others, 'of a mingled 
yarn, good and evil,' the love-touches have 
all been evil." 

The judge, expressing great willing- 
ness, and even curiosity, to hear the ad- 
ventures of his friend, the master thus 
proceeded : 



CHAPTER IX. 



THE STORY OF HECTOR m'bRIDE. 

My father was a canny Scot ; my mother 
was also from "the land o' cakes;" and 
they were married in Scotland. Soon af- 
ter this event, they emigrated, and settled 

in the village of :, in the colony of 

Pennsylvania. My father had a few hun- 
dred pounds in ready cash, with which lie, 
in a humble way, commenced business. 
By his prudence, frugality, and industry, 
the small store soon grew to be a large and 
fashionable dry-goods establishment; and 
at last he was reputed to be one of the 
wealthiest men in all that country. Of 
course, he was not sparing of pains or 
money in the education of the sole heir 
to his fortune and representative of his 
name ; and I flatter myself, that although 
an only child, I was not altogether un- 
worthy of this care. I take no credit to 
myself for not being a rowdy and vaga-' 
bond, like other sole sons and heirs ; I at- 
tribute it all to the manner in which I was 
raised. My mother, who is now a bright 
saint in heaven, was my first teacher; and 
under her tuition I remained until I was a 
lad some thirteen years old, my principles 
fixed, and my habits formed. Thence I 
was transferred to a select. Latin school, 
kept by a clergyman in his own house, 
and who limited the number of his pupils 
to ten. From this worthy, exemplary, 
and pious man, 1 was taken at the age of 
seventeen, and carried to Philadelphia, 
where I was put under the charge of the 
Rev. Robert M'Guire, D.D., an old school- 
mate of my father, a learned man, and 
famous divine. He was a bachelor, and 
his house was kept by an ancient maiden 
sister, Miss Kitty M'Guire, who was the 
exact counterpart of her brother, bating 
only the roughness of his manners and the 
extreme cultivation of his mind. Miss 
Kitty was as simple-hearted as a -child; 
so whs the doctor, her brother, and so was 
I. My preceptor and myself saw the 
world as it was reflected from the mirror 
in our own breasts ; we studied human na- 
ture in books, learned from Plato the char- 
acter of love, and believed all women to 
be Sapphos, Penelopes, and Lucretins. 
My final destination was the bar; and. as 
preparatory to this, my Rev. friend — God 
rest his soul ! — plunged me into the bot- 
tomless sea of metaphysics and theo- 
logies. Here T floundered among an end- 
less jargon of names, terms, sects, creeds, 
theories and systems, and grappled about 
with Catholicism, Socinianism, Arianism, 
Neologism, and a thousand other isms, at 
the bare recollection of which, even at 
this distant day. my temples throb and my 
brain aches. But my teacher was really 
a man of taste and learning; and so. after 
fc'adin" me ihrouerh the dead seas of ami- 



ALAMANCE. 



£3 



iquity, he polished me off with the modern 
sciences and accomplishments; in short, 
I was what I thought every gentleman — 
■especially every legal gentleman — ought 
to be : a thorough scholar. I was learned 
in Latin, Greek, and French; mathemat- 
ics, physics, and metaphysics; well read 
in poetry, ancient and modern, and could 
make gentlemanly verses in several lan- 
guages ; could quote history a4 libitum, 
talk learnedly with physicians and "natu- 
ralists, and take a hand in the discussions 
of divines. 

Such was the furniture with which my 
■mind was equipped, and yet I was not 
happy; for I wanted food for the heart. 
In all my occupations, a feeling of loneli- 
ness would creep upon me — a desire, a 
longing for something, I knew not what. 
I had an eye for all that was beautiful in 
nature and art; an ear for all, that, was 
melodious; and a heart that rung respon- 
sive to every touch of tenderness. Every 
change of the seasons — the wild flowers, 

• the solitary woods, the blue heavens, the 
clouds and stars, spoke to me and sang to 
me ; but they spoke of the sympathy of a 

■ gentle being whose constellated soul they 
but reflected, and the burden of their song 
was love — love pure as the first blossoms 
of Spring, tender as the poet's thoughts, 
bright as the sun, and lasting as eternity. 
Who was she, this fair and gentle being, 
whose smile lent all its beauty to Nature ; 
whose tenderness was the light of the 
world? I took it for granted she was one 
of my female fellow-mortals, and so I went 
to look for her. I was what is called in 
the schools, verdant, and imagined every 
woman was like the fairest creations of a 
poet's fancy. My fortune, education, and 
connections gave me a passport to the first 
society in the city ; and I was, so to speak, 
soon fairly afloat, an unarmed argosy on a 
pirate sea. Take notice, I was not hunt- 
ing a wife : I was, in fact, determined not 
to marry for several years, and was only 
looking about me for my pleasure, about 
to try the reality of love. To my aston- 
ishment, I was everywhere received with 
kindness ; and I thought all the ladies 
seemed to vie with each other in efforts 
to make me happy. I found every one 
poetical, literary, and sentimental ; every 
one laughed with me at those gross mor- 
tals who were distressed with the mar- 
riage-mania, and every one, believed in 
pure and disinterested love, for which, and 
for which only she intended towed. What 
a delightful world is this ! thought I ; and 
in the mean time, as I fed on thoughts 
which " voluntary move harmonious num- 
<bers," I began to pour out my heart in 
rhymes, all of which were admired and 
■quoted. To show you in what miserable 
lollies my youth indulged, I will quote a 

-nfew of my epigrams and shorter pieces, 
C 



all of which were impromptu, and caused 
by some remark or action of my acquaint- 
ances. Miss Malvina Tinkerwhittle was 
often complaining of her name — said it 
was unpoelical, and had never shone in 
verse or history. One day, hearing her so 
speak, I immediately sat down and wrote 
the following: 

TO .MISS MALVINA. 
You say you do not like your name, 

And wish you had a sweeter one ; 
That yours was never known to fame, 

Nor in a poet's numbers shone. 
If of the past these words be true, 

The future surely shall be thine ; 
For Fame thy beauty soon shall woo, 

And at thy feet shall be its shrine. 
E'en now, there's one to whom its sound 

Is sweeter far than any word 
That is in any language found, 

Or any note in music heard. 
I've seen it writ a thousand times — 

I've seen it kissed from eve to morn— 
I've seeu it in a hundred rhymes, 

And know that near a heart its worn. 
It follows, then, that all that's good 

And fair must in the owner meet ; 
For none but a dear angel could 

E'er make an ugly name so sweet ! 

Miss Malvina, who was much tickled at 
the piece, showed it to her friends ; and the 
next time I saw Miss Sophronia Marryat 
she attacked me for having been more 
complimentary to others than to her. 
What could I do? I went home, and that 
night composed the following verses, which 
I sent to her next morning : 

TO SOPHRONIA. 

You say I never speak to you 

In honeyed strains of compliment ; 
The charge, dear one. in part is true, 

But not as broad as it was meant ; 
For if my lips refuse to pay 

Just tribute to thy virtues rare, 
My heart does homage, night, and day, 

And all thy worth is pictured there. 
There's not a star in yon clear skies 

That has a light so sweet for me, 
As that which beams from thy blue eyes, 

So full of love and purity : 
There's not a flower in all the field, 

That is to me so passing fair, 
As thy dear face, when its frowns yield 

To those sweet smiles more native there ! 
And now, while nature's locked in sleep, 

And silence rules the witching hour, 
While stars their quiet vigils keep, 

And bind me with a mystic power, 
While yon bright queen, with glory crowned, 

Lights earth and heaven with her soft smile, 
Till night, beneath her sway spell-bound, 

Seems softly sad and sweetly wild, 
Dear thoughts of thee float through the mind, 

Like moonbeams through the dusky air; 
And hopes, in darkness long confined, 

Now gleam with soft effulgence there. 
Sweet lady then forgive the lay 

That breathes my soul's long-cherished.aira, 
For smothered love will force its way, 

And the neart's secret hopes proclaim. 
Forgive this once, and never more 

My heart shall force its silent cell, 
But Ihere, withdarkness curtained o'er, 

Will feed on tho ghts I'll never tell. 

A few days after the. reception of these 



34 



A L A M A N C £.. 



stanzas by the lady for whom they were 
written, the lines to Miss Malvina Tinker- 
whittle were returned to me, sealer! up in 
a blank envelope. I do not believe I am as 
vain as most men.Aet 1 am mortal; and it. 
is net to be expected that I can with indif- 
ference see my compositions scornfully 
treated. The offspring of the brain is 
dearer to the author than the suckling in- 
fant to the most tender mother ; and this is 
true in all cases, whalever be the motive 
for writing. The father may himself think 
his progeny ungainly, misshapen, ill-fea- 
tured, and even monstrous; still, he can- 
not endure for others to tell him so, and 
those whose trade it is to point out these 
blemishes to unfortunate parents are a 
generation of vipers, or, rather, may be 
compared to those filthy flies or insects 
who feed upon the sores in our flesh, and 
swarm about the butcher's shambles in 
search of putrid meat. I had written the 
effusion to Malvina to gratify her vanity, 
not. my own, and yet when she sent my 
production back 1 was wounded to the 
quick. A sharp correspondence sprung 
up between us, and from pungent it got to 
be acrimonious, and finally ended in a bit- 
ter quarrel, in which 1 got worsted ;,for it 
was generally reponed that 1 had made 
proposals of marriage and been rejected. 
] unfolded all my sorrows to the sympa- 
thetic Anastasia Grindeman, who agreed 
with ine that Miss Malvina was very un- 
reasonable, and who assured me that she 
herself knew how to treat the coinage of 
a poet's soul. 1 understood her at once, 
and, regretting that my muse had slighted 
so sweei a theme, I endeavoured to atone 
for past neglect, and wrote to her volu- 
minously. Now 1 had, in the mean time, 
and at her request, put a ring on one of her 
fingers with a wish, and at her command 
I related the wish in rhyme. 1 will repeat 
it to you. 

TO ANASTASIA— A Wish. 

We all were wishing t'other day, 

Ami curious was the want of each : 
Some wished for fortune, some would pray 

For gilts beyond all mortal reach; 
While others, with ambition fired, 

With princely nower aspired to reign ; 
Some wished a wife, and some desired 

Exemption from all earihly pain; 
But what, sweet lady, would \ou guess 

Was then, and is, chief wish with me ? 
One which I did not then express, 

And do it now most fearfully. 
You hardly will believe, i fear. 

I wished I were the thousandth part 
In her unsullied breast as dear 

As she's long been within my heart; 
For if I were, I'd then belieAe 

She'd spend with me one life at least, 
Since I could well u tlinnxand live 

With her, and be forever blest ! 

Tn the course of a few days this very 
innocent production returned to me, and 
on the margin were these words : 



" Miss Anast'asie has duly considered 
the offer of Mr. M'Bride, and' regrets that 
she cannot accept it. She esteems him as 
a friend, but it is impossible for her ever 
1o feel for him a mure tender sentiment. 
She will be obliged if he will forget his 
unhappy passion, and remember, only with. 



esteem, 



; Anastasie." 



Suppose the blue concave above us, 
which some believe a solid body, were to 
crack and fall, bringing with it sun, moon, 
and stars, crushing worlds together, and 
heaping the universe in one pile of ruins — 
could you, unharmed, witness all this, you 
would not be more astonished, amazed, 
than 1 was at Anastasia's note. In the 
utter simplicity of my heart, I immediately 
wrote a letter to the lady in question, po- 
litely informing her that she was mistaken; 
to which she answered, briefly, that she 
was sorry I took her for an idiot. I re- 
plied sharply ; a caustic rejoinder followed, 
and, finally, she became fiercely hostile, 
and endeavoured in every possible way to 
mortify and insult me, and injure my rep- 
utation. She accused me of falsehood, 
deceit, fickleness, and double-dealing; ridi- 
culed me as wife-mad ; and. among her fe- 
male com pan ions, made herself merry at my 
expense. My troubles were now thickening; 
my poetry began to return from all quar- 
ters of the compass, and every day there 
was a servant at my door with a bundle in 
his hand. On some pieces there were the 
words, " Your rhyming trash is returned ;" 
some contained notes similar to that of 
Anastasia ; and, in the course of one week, 
I received in this way fifteen refusals — at 
least a dozen of them coming from ladies 
whom 1 had not seen or written to for a 
month previous. 

As my unfortunate verses came shower- 
ing upon me, 1' noticed a singular fact. 
The ladies, when aiming to be pleasing 
and sentimental, had a way of Frenchify- 
ing their names, and I never received a 
tender or a complimentary note but what 
it was signed " Bettie," " Sallie," " Marie," 
'• Florindie," " Peggie," " Jtuthie," " Mar- 
thie," &c. &c. Such were the holyday 
signatures with which they shone on state 
occasions, or when fishing for admirers; 
but, when venting their indignation, their 
splenetic effusions came in the homely 
names of '■ Elizabeth," "'Margaret," and 
"Sarah," in full. Thus, I began to think, 
you keep your smiles and sweetness for 
the public; your frowns and claws for the 
unfortunate wights who call you wives; 
but this was a sentiment too dangerous to 
avow. Accidentally 1 acquired another 
rare piece of information, and I will detail 
it to you, that you may understand the true 
character of those creatures whom we ab- 
surdly take to be of a more celestial na- 
ture. Would you think it I I ascertained, 



ALAMANCE. 



35 



from sources entitled to credit, that every 
handsome girl, as soon as she quits school, 
sets her brain to work in the composition 
of a pretty sentence, to be used on cer- 
tain interesting and momentous occasions. 
Most of my acquaintances, as 1 under- 
stood, had spent weeks in this grave and 
improving occupation, and, after finally 
suiting themselves, first recorded and then 
committed to memory the result of their 
labours. Thus all the suitors of each lady 
were rejected in precisely the same lan- 
guage, and thus it was the deceitful things 
were enabled to speak so prettily on such 
embarrassing occasions.* 

About this same time, a tall, stout, and 
whiskered cousin of Sophronia Marryat 
called upon me; and, after a very dry 
salutation, he remarked, twirling his whis- 
kers, that he had come to demand an 
explanation of my conduct. He was a 
gentleman with whom 1 had been intimate, 
and, more hurt lhan alarmed at his manner, 
I enquired what part of my conduct had 
given him offence — at the same time as- 
suring him that I had never to iny knowl- 
edge desired to injure him in any way. 

"You have trifled with my cousin, sir," 
said he, fiercely, " and you must fight. 
Here are two pistols; take your choice, 
and let us settle the business in this very 
room. The door is locked, sir, and the 
key in my pocket ; and if you do not 
choose to fight like a man, I shall cowhide 
you like a dog, and post you as a coward 
all over the city." 

Now, I had been for some time past so 
much engaged with my many quarrels, 

* Note by the Editor. — The master, from 
whose papers might be compiled -'The Curiosities 
of Woman," preserved the formulae alluded to. The 
writer of this note, believing that no such custom 
now prevails, hopes he will be gratifying the cu- 
rious, and offending no one, by inserting here some 
of those sentences that in their day pierced many a 
lover's heart : 

" You have my friendship ; ask me for no more." 
" I cannot love you ; in friendship's name, 1 beg 
you, do not distress me so again." 

" If you are as truly my friend as I am yours, you 
will not again ask me for what 1 cannot give ; for 
the will has no control over the heart." 

" See me no more, or see me only as a friend." 
" There is no charm to win the heart : its love is 
free." 

" My heart is free : you never can enslave it." 
" 1 thank you for the honour you have done me ; 
I will be your friend, but my heart I cannot control." 
" The fates decide to us divide, 

For still my little heart says nay; 
I cannot be your bonny bride, 

But for your happiness will pray." 
This last was the formula of a nymph who 
weighed some thirteen stone neat — j. e., without 

her . 

" The spell is over, the charm is dissolved — 
I love thee no more" 
Was used by several coquettes ; and the following 
is a specimen of the formula to be wriitun to ab° 
sent lovers: » 

" Ob. never must we meet again, 
Unless you come as but a friend !" 



that I had totally forgotten Sophronia and 
her poetry, and could not, for the life of 
me, understand to what my warlike enemy 
alluded. 1 disliked, therefore, to fight, as 
it were, in the dark, not knowing for what 
I was risking my life: but equally great 
was my dislike of the cowhide. 

Sir, 1 am a schoolmaster, and it ill be- 
comes me to preach against the use of the 
rod. There are cases that demand its ap- 
plication; but the ingenuous soul will never 
deserve and never permit such a degrading 
punishment.. My back lias never yet been 
striped by parent or teacher; and, peaceful 
as 1 am, and much as 1 fear God and desire 
to keep his commandments, I tell yoti that 
whoever lays a whip or a cowhide on me, 
in anger, must "atone for it with his blood. 
] cannot help it; and I pray God to deliver 
me from the temptation. 

I arose to my feet, and, taking up a 
chair, I informed Sophronia's cousin that 
I was opposed to the barbarous and mur- 
derous custom of duelling, not because I 
feared for the life of my body, but for the 
salvation of my soul. I told him, also, that 
1 was not afraid of him, or any other man 
on earth, and that if he attempted to strike 
me with the emblem of infamy which he 
held in his hand, I should dash his brains 
out on the spot. "And now," 1 continued, 
" if you cannot act like a rational man, 
and specify your cause of grievance, yon 
will please to leave my room, or 1 shall 
find a passage for your body, although the 
door is locked." 

Before he had time to reply, my reverend 
friend and preceptor, Dr. M'Guire, was 
making a great fuss at the door, and my 
room-.mate, who evidently began to be 
ashamed of himself, immediately admitted 
the parson. The old gentleman, suspect- 
ing the business we had been engaged in, 
roundly lectured us both ; and when he 
concluded, Sophronia's cousin, who was a 
passionate but a frank and generous man, 
at once promised that the quarrel should 
end for the present, and, to satisfy 'the doc- 
tor and induce him to withdraw, he hand- 
ed him all his weapons. I now learned 
that Miss Marryat had induced her cousin 
to believe that 1 had solemnly engaged my- 
self to her, and that after this I had desert- 
ed her, and had been endeavouring to vic- 
timize others, until I was found out. I 
managed to satisfy the gentleman of his 
cousin's falsehood— only to a near relation 
would I accuse any lady of falsehood — I 
showed him a copy of the unfortunate 
verses I had given her, explained the cir- 
cumstances under which they were writ- 
ten, and gave ^ full history of all my other 
scrapes. Mis indignation was now direct- 
ed against her, and lie would have gone 
immediately to her and have upbraided her 
for her treachery, but 1 would not let him. 
He, however, became my devoted friend, 



36 



ALAMANCE. 



warmly espoused my cause, defended me 
on all occasions, and is to this day sincere- 
ly attached to me. 

When he left me, I reflected on what I 
had heard,- and fearing that Miss Marryat 
might consider herself in fault, I went im- 
mediately to her, and made proposals of 
marriage, which she, of course, rejected. 
I did not press the matter; and, knowing 
that a second offer would have been ac- 
cepted, I was careful not to make it. 

I now made a grand discovery ; I ascer- 
tained, in the first place, that I had been a 
.fool, and, in the second, that the ladies had 
been playing upon me. I found #ut, to my 
utter astonishment, that every one sup- 
posed me to be a wife-hunter, and that this 
was my sole occupation. I soon ascer- 
tained the cause of this opinion, fori found 
that the minds of women, long before they 
grow up. are totally absorbed by the sub- 
ject of marriage, and that they think every 
time a gentleman pays them a visit he is 
looking about for a wife. There is no 
social intercourse between the unmarried 
people of different sexes in this country, 
and it is universally supposed that every 
man who has attained his majority is rab- 
id to get married. Hence I was regarded 
by all as the Great Rejected — as a man who 
had determined to marry, had tried every 
body, and been refused by every respecta- 
ble lady of his acquaintance ; and all this 
happened, too, before I had ever made up 
my mind to wed or been in love. I found, 
also, that women were educated for one 
purpose, lived for one end, thought of but 
one thing, to wit, to get husbands; that 
their simplicity was all art, their tender- 
ness and sensibility all feigned, their love, 
to call it by its most polite name, all pas- 
sion ; that a husband, a mere man with a 
straight leg, a good estate, and a fine equi- 
page, bounded all their wants, filled the full 
;' measure of their souls' desires, and that 
hence, because I was not a marrying man, 
I had got into trouble with the sex. I 
therefore withdrew, to a great extent, from 
female society, giving way to a new star 
that about this time began to culminate. 

(This was a medical student from Virginia, 
and a very unfair specimen of the cava- 
liers of that renowned old colony. He 
was of a low, -squat figure, with a short, 
thick neck, a harsh, dissonant voice, and a 
j face indicative of nothing but the most 
beastly sensuality, while he danced and 
walked like a drunken satyr. This form 
was the tenement of a weak and ignorant 
mind, and of a base and selfish heart. Me 
was vain, pompous, and impudent as the 
devil himself; in all his feelings, conver- 
'salion, and actions, there was never dis- 
' played the faintest spark of sensibility or 
honour, and, take him altogether, he was 
the purest and most unmixed compound of 
vulgarity and brutal passions I ever saw. 



He had brought to Philadelphia a letter 
from a gentleman resident'in Virginia, but 
known all over the continent ; and in this 
letter he was recommended to various fam- 
ilies in the city as the only scion and heir 
of an illustrious and wealthy house in the 
colony from which he came. Notwith- 
standing his high descent, and his great 
pretensions, he was universally detested 
by the gentlemen, not a few of whom, dis- 
gusted with his effrontery and arrogant as- 
sumptions,denounced him in his presence, 
and some even went so far as to spit in his 
face and strike him publicly with whips 
and cowhides. He bore these things meek- 
ly among the men, and became a hero 
among the women, with whom he was ex- 
tremely popular, and who permitted him 
to use very unbecoming familiarities. I 
have observed one singular peculiarity 
about the sex, audit is worthy of n»to — 
they are governed by fashion, and they will 
all do what others do. Let Hyperion and 
Apollo come among them, and be sup- 
posed to be unpopular with the sex, and 
all womankind will hate them; and let 
Puck and Caliban appear at the same time 
as characters who have been successful, 
and all the sex dote upon them. Thus it 
was with the Virginia student. Possess- 
ed of a little cunning, he began with the 
vain and weak, and, succeeding with these, 
he came to be so irresistible that, in all 
cases, he saw and conquered. All fell 
before him, and with some he took un- 
wonted freedoms ; but, as I detest tales of 
scandal, 1 shall not repeat the many infa- 
mous reports that were current. As the 
popularity of this gentleman increased 
among the females, mine decreased ; and 
1 saw that multitudes of my old friends 
were making capital out of the imagined 
addresses which I had paid them. 1 as- 
certained this fact by a peculiar test, in a 
certain fashionable article of dress. You 
must know that ladies estimate their own 
importance according to the number of 
beaux which they have had the honour of 
turning off, and that these honours are evi- 
denced, not like the degrees in our colleges 
and universities, by diplomas on parch- 
ment, but after the manner of certain ori- 
ental dignitaries. Thus we had, in Phila- 
delphia, the pashaw of one tail, of two. and 
of three tails, or, what was the same thing, 
one tale as large as three, and some of 
our chief belles took so many degrees that 
their identity was lost, and they were com- 
pletely swallowed up in the type of their 
glory. Now I observed that most of my 
acquaintances had taken a new degree, and 
supposing that they considered I'his acces- 
sion to their honours as causing a corre- 
sponding diminution of my own, I avoided 
them, and mingled only with those who 
had not. grown in importance, and who did 
not seem to fancy the Virginia student* 



ALAMANCE. 



37 



These were the tests by which I and other 
gentlemen judged the merits of the ladies, 
and, judging by these tests, there was one 
who greatly won upon my esteem. She 
was a quiet and diffident creature, whom, 
in the days of my glory, I had scarcely 
observed, and who, perhaps, never would 
have attracted my attention but for an ac- 
cident. I was with' her once at a party, 
and, some one desiring to hear her sing, 1 
was delighted with the sweetness and pa- 
thos of her voice, and by the words of her 
song. As I remember these latter even to 
this day, and as they have a peculiar relish 
for me, I will repeat them. 

EOTHA'S SONG. 

"Some love the morn's pale, twilight gleams, 
And some the evening's golden beams, 
While others crave, with fond delight, 
The deep'ning shadows of the night, 
When the blue canopy above 
is lit with countless eys of love. 
Tho' every phase of nature's face 
Still has for me a matchless grace, 
Oh, give to me the noon-tide hour, 
To lie in some fair rustic bower, 
Where, wafted on the, perfumed breeze, 
The softened hum of distant bees 
Falls on the ear in melody, 
Like far-off spirit minstrelsy ! 
Sweet fancies, then, of brighter climes, 
And mern'rics dear of by-gone times, 
And the day-dreams of early youth, 
When I knew naught but love and truth, 
And this cold, thorny world of ours 
V/as blooming with celestial flowers, 
And hopes and joys, forever fled, 
And faces of the early dead, 
From every taint of eartlv refined, 
Float softly through the dreamy mind ! 
I've gazed upon all earthly toys, 
I've tasted of all worldly joys, 
I've bowed at Beauty's gilded shrines, 
I've wept o'er Fiction's melting lines, 
I've glowed with friendship's thankless flame ; 
I've felt the stings that follow fame, 
I've laughed and roamed through festive hall, 
I've drunk of love's most bitter gall, 
And, for a short and fleeting hour, 
Have worn the chains of wealth and power : 
Yet vain these pleasures now all seem 
As mocking phantoms of a dream, 
Am\ not a joy can this earth give, 
For which my soul would deign to live; 
But the sweet fancies of the mind, 
And mem'nes dear 'o'auld lang syne.' 
Then give to me the still noon-tide, 
When through the soul sol't visions glide 
Of vanished hopes, and happier times, 
Of holier love and brighter climes !" 

These words and the air, as I before 
said, made a deep impression on me ; and, 
going to the lady, I was happy to find that 
this was her favourite song. We soon be- 
came intimate ; I visited her often, and 
every time 1 saw her she took a deeper hold 
upon my feelings. She possessed a distinct 
individuality of character, a rare thing in a 
woman, for they are generally cut bv the 
same pattern. She thought much for her- 
self — another rare thing — and, to save you 
a long description, she was one of those 
precious gems, whose beauty and whose 



value are ever increasing as you exam- 
ine them, and known only to the nicest 
judges. She was inclined also to be pen- 
sive, and finding that the cause was her 
father's fondness for the young Virginian, 
and that she detested him, I became still 
more interested, and soon I loved — with 
all the fervour of my nature I loved her. 
Those who can say so, in plain words, to 
the object of their preference are stran- 
gers to the passion. My actions, my man- 
ners, my eyes, my verses, and my presents 
told her, in a thousand ways, and with a 
thousand tongues, that she was dear to) 
me; and a similar language, in similar but | 
softer ways, she spoke to me. Just at this I 
time my father sent for me, and I found 
him a bankrupt. He had invested three- 
fourths of his estate in a speculation in 
Boston ; his partner proved to be. dishonest, 
and incompetent, and he not only lost all 
his capital, but the debts of the concern, to 
more than this amount, were coming on 
him in showers. 1 was informed that I 
must hereafter rely upon myself, and that 
1 was now the only prop of my parents in 
their declining years. I returned to Phil- I 
adelphia for my books and clothes, and to 
declare my passion to Rotha. 

This, you will say, was rash ; but you 
must know that misfortunes subdue the 
heart, and press out its secrets. I now 
felt the need of sympathy and of affection 
to sustain me in my trials, and desired to 
know certainly that I was beloved ; and 
then, full of the hope and energy of youth, I 
would strain every faculty of soul and 
body to prepare myself for a happy union 
with the sweet object to whom my soul 
was wedded. With tears in her eyes she 
had bade me farewell when. I left the city ; 
with a bright smile she welcomed my re- 
turn. I at once declared my sentiments; 
and, as I pressed my suit with the elo- 
quence which love alone can inspire, she 
wept and sobbed in my arms, and referred 
me to her father. To him I applied by 
letter — a long, and as I then thought, a 
masterly production, vindicating my pas- 
sion and my conduct, and pledging myself, 
on the honour of a gentleman, never to 
claim the prize if I did not, to the letter, 
fulfil any condition which he might im- 
pose. I asked him to name any possible 
thing I was to do, any particular time I 
was to wait, and besought him not, for 
mere worldly considerations of a tempo- 
rary character, to consign to despair and 
endless misery two beings whom God had 
destined for each other. To this letter 
there was a polite answer from Rotha's 
father, informing me that at a- particular 
hour he would wait upon me. The old 
man was rich, and his daughter was an only 
child ; still, he kindly but firmly opposed 
my suit because 1 was not ready to marry ; 
and. having enriched me with many "wis© 



S3 



ALAMANCE. 



saws and modern instances," he left me. 
The next time I saw Rotha she received 
me with a formal courtesy, the next time 
she was evPft rude, and. when 1 called 
again sr/,e was not to be seen. 1 had re- 
course to letters, and they were returned ; 
I poured out my soul in poetry, and it, too, 
CJime back. At last I received an invita- 
tion to a small and select evening party at 
Rotha's father's, and went there to find, 
that on that night she was to be married 
to the Virginian student ! I watched for 
her with the intensest interest, with feel- 
ings I shall not attempt to describe. I ex- 
pected to see her approach the altar a 
pale, emaciated, and trembling victim ; and 
lo ! when the bridal party came out, she 
approached with a light, firm step, and a 
smiling face, and went through the re- 
sponses without the least embarrassment. 
I caught her eye when the ceremony was 
over, and she smiled without confusion. 
With a heart beating wildly and a brain 
on fire, I approached her, and addressed 
her in a choked and husky voice. 

"Are you unwell, Mr. M'Bride ?" she 
asked, with the utmost indifference and 
simplicity. 

"No," I replied — " at least, my body is 
not sick ;" and, taking her hand, which was 
not affected by the tremulousness of my 
own, I asked her if she was happy. I 
gazed steadily and meaningly into her 
eyes, which steadily returned the gaze, 
as she answered, " Perfectly so : why on 
earth do you ask such a silly question ?" 

My heart was crushed — life lost all its 
savour — the whole earth seemed instantly 
changed, and I left Philadelphia to return 
no more. My father, after settling up his 
affairs, saved a small estate, enough to 
make him barely independent; but his 
anxieties and his misfortunes undermined 
his constitution, and he went the way of 
all flesh. My mother soon followed him ; 
and thus I was left alone in the world, 
without kindred or family. I built a mon- 
ument over the graves of my parents, and 
engraved their virtues on it, sold for cash 
my small inheritance, and have since been 
a solitary wanderer, to whom all the world 
is a highway, and whose only home is the 
public inn. Still it is true, as Shenstone 
6ays, 

" Who'er has travelled earth's dull round, 
Where'er his footsteps may have been, 
Will sigh to think he still lias found 
His warmest welcome at an inn." 

Yet I sometimes think others have a 
better and a wanner home, and a feeling 
of utter desolation steals upon me. 1 sit 
in the social circle, tell merry tales, laugh, 
and sometimes romp with the little ones ; 
but when 1 retire to my chamber I feel an 
oppressive burden on my heart; the memo- 
lies of the past, all clad in mourning, stalk 



before me, and look sadly on me. I go to 
my window and look out upon the broad, 
blue expanse of heaven, glowing with its 
myriads of tender eyes that speak of love, 
of softly-whispered sympathies, of dear, 
watching ones, whose affections cluster 
round as at home ; and then I remember 
that I have no home, and, sigh, till my 
wearied soul, soaring above the earth— its 
petty joys and sorrows — above the clouds, 
and above the starry canopy, bathes itself 
in the light of God's eternal love, and is at 
rest! 

It remains only to be said that my suc- 
cessful rival was a cheat, a base impostor 
who had forged the letter which introduced 
him into fashionable society. The gentle- 
man from whom it purported to be came 
to Philadelphia in time to be a week too 
late. Rotha's father went mad and died 
broken-hearted, and his son-in-law, soon 
spending all his estate in the wildest ex- 
travagance, took his miserable wife and 
only child, and ran off to avoid his credit- 
ors. I have never heard of him since ; and, 
may God forgive me for it, I was almost 
rejoiced at the woful discovery made by 
his wretched bride. I can now, however, 
and do regret it ; and, if in my wanderings 
I ever find her, I shall endeavour to relieve 
her wants. 

Now take my advice, love not : it is the 
forbidden fruit that will entail wretchedness 
on you here, and may wreck your soul's 
salvation hereafter. 



CHAPTER X. 

Then there mustie delusion.' 



-Cain. 



Edith Mayfield came no more to the 
school of Alamance during the remainder of 
the session. Henry Warden wondered at 
her absence ; but, fortified by the counsels 
of the master, and absorbed in the study 
of military science, he began to imagine 
that she had passed from his thoughts. He 
soon, however, found that he was mis- 
taken ; fpr a report that she was to be mar- 
ried to Ross getting into circulation, he be- 
came nearly maddened. Suspense being in- 
tolerable, he determined to ascertain his 
ownfate by letter; and so, after several days 
of study and composition, the epistle was 
completed, and committed to the charge 
of Ben. Notwithstanding the report about 
Ross, the judge felt that Edith, in public 
estimation, was too young to be addressed, 
and he was apprehensive that even she 
might think so herself. Yet what else 
could he do 1 He could not see her alone ; 
she was evidently peculiarly affected to- 
wards him, and she was surrounded by his 
enemies. Besides, Henry Warden had a 
theory of his own in regard to marriages, 
and this he fully developed and defended 



ALAMANCE. 



39 



in his letter. He believed in long engage- 
ments and in early marriages, and sus- 
tained his notions with considerable show 
of reason. 

"Many parents think," said he, "that it 
is proper their daughters should not en- 
gage themselves until some time after they 
fiave finished their education, and had an 
opporl unity to look around them. This 
doctrine is a manifest absurdity: 1st. Be- 
cause it is well known that woman, at all 
times, forms her conclusions more from 
instinct and the impulses of the heart than 
from the reflections of the mind. Man 
reasons ; woman feels; Thus, then, as her 
heart decides the matter at last, why not 
let it do it when its feelings are purest, its 
thoughts most innocent, and its impulses 
most, generous'? 2d. As a general rule, 
females depreciate daily from the hour 
they finish their education till the hour 
they are married. This is obliged to be 
so. They do not read to any extent; in- 
deed, they quit books' when they quit 
school. They are not learning household 
matters ; for no one understands these un- 
til she marries, and then she learns almost 
by intuition. How, then, is she engaged ? 
In entertaining visiters ; in being courted 
and flirted with, forming penchants, thinking 
about this man and about that ; and in being 
flattered, petted, and perhaps having her 
hand squeezed every day of her life. Can 
she be surrounded continually by a troop of 
amorous, sighing, caressing gallants, pas- 
sionately teasing and extravagantly com- 
plimenting her, and still remain unchanged 
for the worse ! Will not the breath of 
passion, so continuously and so hotly 
breathed around her, stain at last the spot- 
less purityof her virgin heart] In addi- 
tion to this, is she not daily learning the 
coquette's arts ? — becoming more and more 
deceitful, and more and more fond of atten- 
tions, displays, parties, balls, and public en- 
tertainments 1 Is a constant attendance 
at such places at all necessary to fit her 
for that quiet, retired, and modest life of 
devotion to a single object, which she 
should lead when married? I am not 
afraid, dear Edith, that you will or ever can 
change for the worse ; 1 am only defending 
my general proposition." 

He then went on to show the import- 
ance of long engagements. 

" The great thing necessary to en- 
sure future excellence or eminence," he 
continued, "is to have our aims early 
fixed on some certain and worthy object, 
no matter what. How many middle-aged 
and old persons have we heard lamenting 
that the best, and most important portions 
of their lives were wasted in aimless, 
trifling, desultory amusements and studies! 
But how are the purposes of a very youth- 
ful mind to be fixed ? I answer, only 
through, the heart. Let, then, two very 



young persons love each other, and se- 
riously engage themselves, and what will 
be the result? Each having a single, cer- 
tain end in view, neither will have any 
time to spend in visionary schemes, in idle 
thoughts, in wild habits, or in vain experi- 
ments. They would have ample opportu- 
nities for studying each other's character; 
for assimilating in tastes, manners, and 
feelings ; for learning how to bear and for- 
bear, what foibles to make allowances for, 
what infirmities to" humour. When two 
persons are wedded together, they are pro- 
nounced one flesh; and yetthis entire as- 
similation of different minds, hearts, and 
bodies must he effected after, perhaps, a 
week's acquaintance! It cannot be pos- 
sible ; it would be a miracle. No ; let us 
now, while our hearts are fresh and pure, 
dedicate ourselves to each other; and. if 
the mere engagement becomes burden- 
some, then we will happily escape from a 
more intimate union which would make us 
wretched. Let us, before Heaven, sol- 
emnly contract, ourselves to each other; 
and then, after years of trial, with hearts 
as pure and fervent as they now are, with 
chastened desires, with tempers tried, ex- 
travagant expectations discarded, with 
kindred and harmonious tastes, sympathies, 
and feelings, and with' a perfect knowledge 
of ourselves and of each other, and a proper 
estimate of the responsibilities and duties 
of our new relations to each other, we will 
consummate that union, whose yoke will 
be easy and whose burden light — a union 
from which will flow a sweet serenity, a 
quiet contentment, an entire and unspeak- 
able, felicity, to which grosser mortals are 
and ever will be strangers !" 

The letter then concluded with an ur- 
gent request that Edith would show it to 
her parents, and return an early answer. 

Black Ben, on Saturday night, delivered 
it to her maid, and from her learned the 
very satisfactory intelligence that Ross had 
made proposals of marriage to her young 
mistress, and been rejected. Edith, after 
perusing the epistle carefully some six or 
seven times, handed it to her father, whom 
it filled with measureless astonishment. 
In fact, that worthy old gentleman, not- 
withstanding his very moderate estimate 
of Henry Warden's practical or common 
sense, was completely astounded, and very 
charitably concluded that love, or some 
other powerful excitant, had totally de- 
ranged his young friend's intellects. He 
suspected also that Ross loved his daugh- 
ter, and, although he did not know that he 
had addressed her in a formal way, he sup- 
posed that he had or would do it soon ; 
but he also supposed that his object was to 
marry her immediately. The proposition 
of Henry Warden, and the sublimated rea- 
soning by which it was sustained, were 
utterly beyond his comprehension ; and, 



*fl 



A LAMA N U E. 



being a prudent and well-disposed gentle- 
man, he secretly resolved to keep from the 
knowledge of the world the mental afflic- 
tion which had visited the author. 

On tiie next day, Mayfield was early at 
the church, and meeting, as he had expect- 
ed, Henry Warden, he proposed to him 
that, they should take a walk into the 
woods. 

" Mr. Warden," said he, when they were 
beyond the reach of interruption, " rny 
daughter Eddie requested me to hand you 
this letter ;" and so saying, he returned to 
the judge his own epistle. 

Henry, hastily glancing over it, saw 
that not a sentence or a word had been 
written by Edith ; and, after a rather pain- 
ful silence, asked timidly, if any one was 
offended. 

"No one is offended," answered Edith's 
father; 4i but my daughter was surprised, 
and requested me to say that she would 
be pleased if you would not write again. 
She is but a child, and it is very improper 
:to be writing love to her now." 

" I an1 sorry I wrote," said Henry ; " but 
if you will permit me, I will make an ex- 
planation which will satisfy you of the 
propriety of my conduct." 

"It's a delicate subject," interposed 
Mayfield, dryly, " and it is not proper for a 
father to converse upon it. Let us return." 
The old gentleman's manner prevented 
the judge from again alluding to the sub- 
ject ; but he could not but wonder how it 
Was proper for a father to carry a letter 
from his daughter, and yet be improper 
for him to speak of its contents ; and still 
more strange did it seem to him, that what 
was commendable in the conduct of Ross 
should be censurable in his own. It is 
needless to undertake to describe Henry 
Warden's feelings ; every reader who has 
been a rejected lover will understand them, 
and those who have not gone through the 
experience can form no conception of it. 
It is said to be a crushing, sickening sen- 
sation, that suddenly comes on a man with 
overwhelming force, destroying the vital- 
ity of the heart, and causing one lo feel 
not only mean and wretched, but utterly 
indifferent towards the pursuits of pleas- 
ure and gain, and the prospect of suffering 
and death. Thus the judge was becalm- 
ed ; nothing for a while could excite, in- 
terest, or amuse him. By degrees, how- 
ever, his elastic feelings began to revive; 
and after much perplexing deliberation, he 
satisfied himself Edith's father was labour- 
ing under a mistake, and that this was 
the cause of his (the judge's) misfortunes. 
Would not she, if left to herself at least, 
return an explicit and satisfactory answer? 
He supposed she would, and wondered 
why he had not thought of a matter so ob- 
vious. He suspected that, restrained by 
-motives of delicacy, she had not exhibited 



his letter, which was sealed in an enve- 
lope when he received it back ; and hence 
he concluded that the old people, thinking 
he wished to marry now, had become, offend- 
ed. Every thing now seemed explicable ; 
and, again resorting to his pen, he wrote a 
short and polite letter to Mayfield, inform- 
ing him that he had not made propositions 
of marriage to his daughter, but had only 
wished to engage himself to her; a pro- 
ceeding which, he said, he supposed could 
give no offence to her parents. He fur- 
ther remarked, that, if there -was anything 
about his conduct which he (Mayfield) ob- 
jected to, or could not understand, he 
hoped it would be candidly mentioned, and 
an opportunity given to have it explained. 
" Let there be no shadow between us," 
wrote the judge ; " and that there may not 
be, let us freely unfold our hearts." 

Now it so happened lhat Mayfield had 
no heart to unfold, while the shadow to 
which Warden alluded was to the old 
man an Egyptian darkness, which even 
a meridian sun could not disperse. He 
was fully confirmed in his belief of Hen- 
ry's mental aberration, and, like all men 
who properly appreciate the gifts of wis- 
dom and intellectual health, he treated his 
neighbour's malady with the greatest ten- 
derness. He wrote to him a polite 'an- 
swer, in which he declared that he was 
not offended, that ho fully understood the 
whole of the judge's conduct, and remark- 
ed that he would take the liberty of advis- 
ing his young friend, with great respect, 
to abandon his purpose. "When you get 
older," concluded the old gentleman, " you 
will see the folly of your present course', 
and will not blame me for having kindly, 
but firmly, admonished you to cease your 
fruitless efforts for my daughter. Your 
conduct is embarrassing and unpleasant to 
us all." 

" Embarrassing and unpleasant to os 
all!" ejaculated Henry Warden to himself: 
" then Edith is, of course, displeased." 

It is said that drowning men will catch 
at straws ; but, whether this be true oj 
false, it is very certain that young gentle- 
men desperately in love give up all hope 
with extreme reluctance. While fortune 
•blows fairly and their mistresses smile 
sweetly they are sensitive, captious, and 
easily give themselves up to incredulity 
and despondency ; when they are blown up, j 
utterly rejected, they are more than ever 
disposed to believe that they are beloved, 
and will build immense expectations upon, 
the most trivial and unmeaning words and 
looks. The judge strangely convinced 
himself that Edith must have tender feel- 
ings for him, and being now, in vulgar 
phrase, at the end of his row, he again 
had recourse to the advice of the master. 
In the mean time his conduct excited no 
1 little gossip among his friends. 



ALAMANCE. 



41 



" They did gossip, even at Alamance," 
says the master ; " and where, I should 
like to be informed, is the place on the 
whole earth, lo/» ovbr. tcrraiiim, where there 
are no gossips V Yes, they did gossip at 
Alamance, and they did have there post- 
riders, who brought news "in advance of 
the mails." How ihey got it was a mys- 
tery ; for Henry Warden and the master, 
and Edith Mayfield and her parents, were 
the only persons in the secret, and they 
strictly held their peace. Nevertheless, 
information of what had taken place, with 
numberless embellishments and additions, 
got abroad, and, for two whole weeks, the 
names of the judge and of Edith were con- 
stantly in the mouths of every body. They 
had expected it — the wise, shrewd, know- 
ing old ones had expected a blow out, for 
they had observed that Henry Warden was 
somewhat daft. The young men and boys 
had not expected it, nor would they then 
believe that, as they had heard, their friend 
had first tried to marry a girl clandestinely, 
and afterwards, when her father found it 
out, threatened to shoot him if he did not 
give up his daughter. As to the old maids, 
they were entirely satisfied that Warden 
had been properly punished ; and thus, 
wished they, may it happen to every fool 
who has the bad taste to prefer giddy and 
wayward young children to more sen- 
sible, affectionate, and riper beauties. 
Henry's sensibilities were too delicate to 
permit him to talk upon the subject; in- 
deed, he was too proud and contemptuous 
of the world's opinion to make any ex- 
planations, ani so the public was left to 
fabricate its owa intelligence, and to dis- 
cuss it at its leisure. The old censured, 
the young men warmly defended him, and 
the girls tittered, and began to regard him 
as a monster; and thus his popularity was 
not a little shaken. 



CHAPTER XI. 

A SAGE CONVERSATION AND A 8AGE CONCLU- 
SION. 

The man who wins our admiration in 
one respect is endowed by us with every 
great, and agreeable attribute. Thus Hec- 
tor M'Bride, to whom every woman's heart 
was a Cretan labyrinth, and who never found 
the Ariadne clue to any, was consulted by 
Henry Warden, and considered by him as 
his wisest counsellor in regard to his pres- 
ent straits. The master, though not a 
misogamist, was certainly not a lover of 
the diviner sex, and could not be supposed 
to look with patience, or even tolerance, 
on the foolery of love-making. Still his 
was a heart that melted at every tale of 
wistchedness, and that abhorred every spe- 
cies of injustice. He was convinced that 



Henry Warden had been wronged ; he 
was touched with his sorrows, and he was, 
withal, a little curious tcvsee the progress 
and conclusion of a suit which had so 
strange a beginning. He was mortal and 
a bachelor, ahd was, if not delighted, at 
least secretly pleased when his friend, the 
judge, on the first convenient opportunity, 
disclosed all the particulars connected with 
his case, and asked advice. 

" Woman is a strange anomaly,'' said 
the master, " and the more I see of hep 
the more am I puzzled by her character. 
I have in my time mastered difficult stud- 
ies ; I have even gained a reputation for 
skill in abstruse sciences, and yet, al- 
though from my youth up I have applied 
myself with great diligence to the exam- 
ination of woman's psychology, I know 
less of it now than I do of the Eleusin- 
ian mysteries." 

" Edith Mayfield," replied the judge, " al- 
ways seemed to me to be remarkably can- 
did, artless, and easy to be understood. I 
used to think one might tell by glancing at 
her face the very thoughts that were pass- 
ing in her mind." 

" That is the way in which they all de- 
ceive us," returned the master; "if their 
faces were not so demure and innocent- 
looking we would not be so completely 
taken in. We read in their eyes faith, 
simplicity, and tenderness ; we see in their 
conduct, deceit, distrust, and heartlessness. 
Is there any living thing so deaf to the 
calls of mercy as a lady who has a whim 
to gratify V Let her but set her heart, if 
she has one, on a trifle, she would see' 
cities desolated and the world wrapped in 
flames before she would abandon her pur- 
pose. Recollect that Eve, the best and 
purest of the sex, could not forego the tast- 
ing of an apple, although she knew, from 
Almighty God himself, that that simple act 
would damn millions of her posterity to 
wretchedness here and eternal perdition 
hereafter." 

" Eve was cunningly tempted," answer- 
ed Warden, " and overcome in a thought- 
less hour. You must remember that the 
father of lies, the archfiend himself, worked 
upon her heart." 

" And does not the archfiend work upon 
the hearts of all her daughters V asked the 
master. " I have thought much about the 
matter, and have nearly come deliberately 
to the conclusion that woman is a general 
nuisance. It is through her that the devil 
assaults our race, for she forms the most 
assailable point through which to attack 
the soul of man. We would be less vul- 
nerable if there were no such thing." 

" That was more harshly said than 
meant," exclaimed the judge ; " for I know 
you think better of the sex. But we are 
rambling from the subject. The question 
now is, what am I to do 1 I desire only 



ALAMANCE. 



the simplest and the easiest thing on earth ; 
1 want only to know what Edith Mayfield 
thinks of me. Is it not strange that she 
and her father should attempt so to mystify 
tnaV 

" Not in the least," was the master's an- 
swer; "this would not be the world it is 
if every body was not trying to mystify 
every body else. Suppose every one should 
expose his heart — J do not, of course, speak 
of the wicked and the evil-designing — but 
suppose all those whose intentions are 
good should take pains to make those in- 
tentions known, how many heart-burnings, 
quarrels, feuds, and even wars, might be 
prevented! When man first offended the 
Maker the worst part of his punishment 
•was not that he fell to a state of sin and 
misery. These are but the results of that 
eternal fatuity with which he was cursed. 
The world — 1 use the thing for that which 
it contains — the world is an ass, and it is 
my settled conviction that it will always 
remain one. I must write a book." 

" And in the mean time," said the judge, 
"will you be pleased to tell me what I am 
to do; for I am incapable of judging for 
myself, /have exposed my heart to Edith 
and her father ; what interest can they pos- 
sibly have in keeping me in the dark ?" 

"That question displays your simplicity," 
replied the master; " you may as well ask 
what interest Mayfield has in being a gros- 
sum caput, a dunderhead, as Swinburne has 
it ; and what does it profit, a woman to 
play the fool. Nevertheless, something 
must be done, and this is my opinion. 
Every body supposes that every body else 
is trying to deceive him or her, and hence, 
when you are exposing your heart, and 
acting with the most perfect, candour, you 
create alarm and excite suspicions. It is 
folly, therefore, to be ingenuous, and you 
must have recourse to deceit and artifice. 
Now, if you can in some way astonish 
Edith, and let me be present at the time, I 
flatter myself that I can form a correct 
opinion as to her sentiments concerning 
you." 

" How would it do," enquired Warden, 
"to let her know that I am going to leave 
Alamance soon, and not return for years, 
if ever V 

"Very well, indeed." answered the mas- 
ter; "and if you can insinuate this infor- 
mation in a delicate way so much the bet- 
ter. You should da ii in such a way that 
she would not suspect your object, and 
would believe that you were simply taking 
leave of her — bidding her farewell in such 
a way as to represent yourself as being 
extremely sorry, without appearing to be 
a lover. Now this can only be done by 
poetry ; and my advice is, that you write 
lier a farewell piece, and that you touch 
upon the most delicate sentimentality, and 
yet say nothing about a broken heart, 



blighted affection, or eternal love. Yea 
understand me." 

'• 1 think I do,*' said the judge," and ah 
though it is hard for me to rhyme, I will 
try my hand." 

Accordingly, he set himself to work, and, 
while the master was fast asleep, he com- 
posed the following piece : 



"TO EDITH. 

ON HEE QUITTING SCHOOL. 
'Oat of sight, out of miud.' 



None but a gross and fickle soul 

Could such a sentence e'er have penned. 
For there are those of finer mould 

Whose boundless friendship knows noend; 
And when the loved are ' out of sight,' 

And distance throws its pall between. 
How tender, then, in mein'ry's light, 

In every hour they stdl are seen ! 
Each place where the dear one has been, 

The starry night, the forest lone, 
And every fair and quiet scene, 

Reminds us of the loved and gone. 
The loved and gone ! oh ne'er shall fad 

The niem'ry of that gentle one, 
Till mouldering in the earth is laid, 

The heart where she's the only sun ! 
The circling seasons stiU may bring 

Their changes in Time's wasting race. 
From summer skies and flowers of sprint, 

Will smile on me thy changeless face; 
While autumn's paie and withered leaves, 

And snowy lawn and ice-clad trqe, 
i And every sigh that winter heaves,*. 
* Shall whisper sad, sweet thoughts of thee. 
I'll think of thee as on the dead 

Who left me in my early years, 
O'er whom unbought affection shed 

Its saddest and its holiest tears : 
I'll think of thee as on the dreams. 

The happy dreams of by-gone times, 
Those, ne'er forgotten, hallowed gleams 

From fairer worlds and bflghter clime3— 
In youth, in manhood, and in age, 

In all the lights and shades of life, 
When fortune smiles, when tempests rage, 

In festive hall, in battle's strife ; 
At morn — at noon, at day's still close, 

When "*dewy eve weeps o'er the lea,' 
And during night's profound repose, 

Oh then I'll still remember thee ! 
And as I close my fading eyes, 

When life's last mortal sands are run, 
With visions of the upper skies, 

Shall mingle thoughts of thee, sweet one!" 

" Now," said the master, rubbing his eyes 
and, taking charge of the above production, 
"you will see how I can map out an un- 
known continent. To-morrow night I will 
bring you a chart of her mind, delineated 
with as much accuracy as any geograph- 
ical picture of the moon taken by the 
sharpest astronomer." 

When M-Bride found himself upon the 
road to Mayfield's, with Warden's poetry 
in his pocket, he began to reflect upon 
his situation. This is a pretty business, 
thought he, for a grave man and a school- 
master. What would the world think, if 
it could see me acting as a go-between for 
star-gazing lovers? — me, Hector M'Bride, 
who set out to reform the abuses of th.8 



ALAMANCE. 



43 



world, engaged with sober interest in 
sounding the shallows of a giddy little 
maiden's heart. "To what base uses may 
we return !" Still, this matter is not. alto- 
gether beneath the notice of the philoso- 
pher; every man's heart is a little world 
in itself — every woman's an unknown sea 
on which the most skilful mariners have 
been lost. It is worth the while to try 
this ocean farther ; for, though many an 
adventurous sailor has been wrecked on 
bleak and barren shores, who knows but 
what some one, more fortunate than the rest, 
may yet reach those fabled islands — those 
gardens of the Hesperides, where man may 
dwell in a state of beatitude, inhaling the 
fragrance of perennial blossoms ! The 
consentient opinions of all mankind agree 
that there is such a place in woman's 
heart, though it has never yet been found. 
If I should make the discovery, what a 
figure it will cut in my book ! I will be- 
come more famous than Columbus, Cabot, 
or Americas, for I'll lead the way to a 
Paradise ! 



CHAPTER XII. 



THE CHART. 



"I am almost afraid to ask you what 
took place," said Henry Warden to the 
master; "but any known calamity is bet- 
ter than a state of doubt. Out with it, 
therefore*, and let me know the worst." 

" I promised to make a chart," answer- 
ed M'Bride — " to prepare a full and accu- 
rate map of her heart — and I have done it. 
Perhaps a careful examination of it will 
enlighten you more than any thing I can 
say. Will you look at it 1" 

"Not till I hear what became of the 
poetry," replied the judge. " Did she read 
it in your presence ? How did she look • 
What did she say and do ?" 

" She did not read or see the poetry in 
my presence or in my absence," said the 
master. 

" Then what did you do with it ?" asked 
the judge. 

," 1 did nothing. Old Mayfield remained 
with us in the room ; and finding that I 
should get no opportunity of speaking pri- 
vately to his daughter, I took my pencil 
and wrote on the back of a letter that I 
had something of importance to deliver to 
her, and asked her how I should manage 
to get it to her. I then handed her the 
letter, saying aloud as 1 did so, that there 
was a Latin sentence which had puzzled 
the best scholars in my school. 

" If I were to try my hand at it I should 
certainly fail," she replied, and gave me 
back the letter. 

Kereat her father, who knows not a 
word of any language except his mother 



tongue, became curious to hear the sen- 
tence. 

" Ad solum defunctum conglomeralo in 
niibibu.s" 1 answered ; and the old man 
made his daughter take down the words, 
the sound of which tickled him prodi- 
giously. He insisted that his daughter, 
unassisted by me or Ross, should make an 
effort, and was satisfied that she could ren- 
der the sentence into English, and there- 
by enhance her already fair reputation 
for learning and acuteness. This modern 
Solomon, in whose head all the wisdom 
of the earth is garnered up, even tOok a 
copy of the words himself, being determ- 
ined, he said, to take Edith's lexicon and 
try his hand. He has an opinion that the 
rays of his mind can illumine the darkest 
subjects, and for weeks he will bruise his 
brains over the sentence I gave him, and 
will at least see as far into iis meaning as 
he can into a mill-stone ; or, what is just 
as hard to him, into the philosophy of any 
thing. Here is your poetry, sir." 

" Alas ! what shall I do *" asked the 
judge, with the most dejected manner. 

" Look at this map, my friend," said the 
master, "and it may comfort you. It is 
carefully collated from the most authentic 
sources, and I'll vouch for its perfect ac- 
curacy." 

" What sort, of a map do you call this?" 
asked the judge. " I see nothing here but 
a blank piece of paper, with the words 
i terra incognita et fabulosaj written in the 
centre, and round >}hem, in large letters, 
' Vanity, an impassable gulf.' " 

"That," answered the master, " is the 
most satisfactory description which can 
be given of any woman's heart. That 
there is such a thing, we learn from tradi- 
tion, and the speculations of psycholo- 
gists ; but its character and its uses have 
been, and ever will be, shrouded in mys- 
tery." 

"Alas!" exclaimed the judge, "what 
shall I do? Every thing and every body 
is against me, and yet I have never wished 
injury to any one. What would I not give 
to know how I stand with Edith? What, 
Mr. M-Bride, shall I do?" 

"Do!'' cried the master : "do your duty 
to your God .and your country, and let 
things take their course. Do you suppose 
you can mend matters by whining like a, 
whipped school-boy, who bellows as loud 
as he can, to excite a general sympathy? 
If you do, you are much mistaken ; and I 
am astonished that you will permit the 
whims and freaks of an idle-brained and 
silly-hearted girl to so unman you." , 

" Sir!" said Henry Warden, pacing the 
room in great excitement, " its easy to 
talk and give advice, and bear with forti- 
tude the misfortunes of others. It's still 
easier to prate about our duties to our 
God and to our country ; but those who 



44 



ALAMAN C.E. 



are most ready thus to prate are the most 
childish when misfortune overtakes them. 
For myself, I profess not to be one of 
those stoics who look on paiu and pleas- 
ure as mere ideas of the mind, and easily 
to be avoided by a simple volition of the 
will. There are many ills that, flesh is 
heir to, and not the least, of them, talk as 
you will, are the pangs of despised love. 
What do we live for 1 To be happy ; and 
the enlightened and generous soul in pur- 
suit of this object will despise many things 
that the vulgar and ignorant regard as the 
most substantial good. You may prate as 
you will about solid studies, grave pur- 
suits, important occupations, great desires, 
and .all such sickly stuff. What "does it 
amount to 1 Those who cant most about 
such things are themselves, with solemn 
concern, grasping at bubbles and chasing 
shadows. No one can or need desire more 
than his own happiness; and where can 
the good, refined, and ingenuous man find 
it except in the full fruition of love, the 
highest attribute of immortal beings 1 I 
leave to others to break their bones and 
rob their nights of rest in the vain and 
sensual pursuits of avarice, ambition, mal- 
ice, and the animal enjoyments of the ta- 
ble and the bottle ; for me, 1 want only to 
spend my days on earth with a being kin- 
dred with those whose society will be one 
of the chief delights of heaven. She is 
good ; Edith Mayfield is as pure, as amia- 
ble, as tender, refined, and generous as 
she is fascinating and beautiful, and I shall 
no longer hear with patience reflections 
on her character. She is dearer to me a 
thousand times than all the rest of the 
world put together ; and I will have you 
to know, that by making you my confident 
in my troubles, I do not give you licence 
to use her name so lightly. I respect you 
more than I do any man except.my father ; 
but I will not permit even you to abuse 
Edith Mayfield in my presence." 

The satirical expression of the master's 
face instantly vanished, and, with his kind 
heart beaming in his eyes, he said, in his 
most gentle tones, " If I have offended you, 
Henry, I sincerely lament it; for God 
knows I would not designedly hurt your 
feelings for any consideration. Do you 
not see that I talk at random 1 DO you 
not see that my indifference is feigned — 
that my mock appearance of unconcern, 
and my vain attempts to ridicule and make 
myself merry at the expense of the sex, 
are like the convulsive laughter of a man 
in fever! My dear friend. I feel for you 
more than 1 care to say ; there' is a rank- 
ling sting at my heart, which I would 
fain forget, and which your grief revives. 
My humour is an unnatural excitement; 
you must forgive me, for 1 have a canker 
here." 

W With all my heart I forgiye you," re- 



plied the judge, " and sincerely ask pardon 
myself, for I have been too hasty. For, 
Heaven's sake forget the Harshness of my 
words and manners, for 1 am not myself." 

" Your warmth was natural and excusa- 
ble," replied the master, " and it is impos- 
sible, for you to be otherwise than sad. 
Your case is a hard one, but a remedy may 
be found in your own mind. It will soon 
be itself again; reason will soon triumph 
over the passions of the heart, though the 
battle will be a fierce one, and the victory 
will cost the lives of some of the dearest 
hopes and sweetest charities and affections 
of your nature. I leave with you the map ; 
when you are by yourself, look on it, and 
it will be of service to you." . 

With this the friends'parted ; M'Bride to. 
attend to matters connected with his pro- 
fession, and Warden to seek out Uncle 
Corny, of whom he had already resolved 
to make a confident and an agent. 

As he approached the residence of the 
Demijohns, his ears were saluted by the 
sound of a fife blown with lively animation, 
and villainous disregard of tune or har- 
mony, while at intervals he heard a hoarse 
and martial voice that seemed to be giving 
commands to a regiment of soldiers on 
parade. Aware of Corny's fondness for 
the art military, and curious to know in 
what manner he was now exercising his 
talents, he advanced to a position whence 
he could see, unobserved, the proceedings 
in the back yard. The old lady, Demi- 
john's mother, sat in her arm-crrair in, the 
doorway, smoking a short-stemmed pipe, 
and watching with a complacent counte- 
nance the actions of her son. He, arrayed 
in the small and faded uniform of his father, 
and with a naked sword in his hand, was 
drilling a squad of ragged negroes of all 
ages and sizes, the most venerable-looking 
one of whom stood at their head leaning 
to his music, blowing with all the force 
of his lungs, and with the most solemn 
sincerity of manner. 

" Massa Corny," at length said the musi- 
cian, pausing in his labours, " spose you let 
me take de fiddle ; I can't blow any music 
out ob dis consarn, for it haint got none 
in it." 

" Fiddles are never used in the army, 
Csesar," answered Demijohn, " and it would 
be against all the rules of war to march 
by them. Attention, company ! Forwards! 
March ! Music in front !" 

At this instant the judge made his ap- 
pearance, and the soldiers would have dis- 
persed incontinently ; but their commander 
was too good an officer to be taken by sur- 
prise. He halted his men, called over their 
names, and, regularly dismissing them, 
then for the first time seemed to be aware 
of the presence of Warden. After some 
brief conversation upon the subject, of war, 
Uncle Corny's visiter took him aside, and 



ALAMA'NCE. 



45 



at once unfolded his business. The soldier 
listened with serious gravity, and indicated, 
by Iiis manner and his conversation, that 
be duly appreciated the momentous im- 
portance of the precious secret committed 
#o his keeping. 

" If I can serve you in any way," said he. 
"you may command me. I shall stand by 
you to the death." 

"You can serve me," replied Warden, 
" and in this way. 1 wish you to manage 
to have Edith at your house. Suppose, 
for instance, you give a party, and invite all 
the young people of the neighbourhood. 
You can then get an opportunity of con- 
4 iersing privately with her; and, if you do, 
I wish you, in a delicate manner, and 
without appearing to be acting by my au- 
thority, to ascertain, if possible, why she 
treats me so rudely. Finally, you must 
give her this poetry; and, if you cannot 
succeed in drawing out, indirectly, the 
cause of her conduct, you may advance 
boldly to the charge — tell her I am the 
most miserable man on earth, that I never 
breathed a harmful word against her, and 
that 1 am completely confounded at her 
conduct. You must take care also to let 
her know that I regard her name as too 
sacred to make a public use of it, and that 
what you know I told you in strict confi- 
dence, you being a friend to both." 

" 1 understand you, Henry," answered 
tJncle Corny, "and your .wishes shall be 
strictly carried out — "to be sure they shall. 
And, to make sure of her and keep off 
Ross, I'll go for lier myself — I will, by Ju- 
.piter — and wo to the man that interferes 
•with me! I'll consult mother about the 
day, and send you your invitation this 
evening. Won't you walk in and take a! 
glass of brandy? I feel, myself, as if 1 
• could enjoy one." • 

" I thank you," said Henry, " I am in 
haste and in low spirits, and must, be gone. 
Let the day be as early as possible." 

'°t shall be, and I know all things will 
come right. I'll conquer or die." 



CHAPTER XIII. 

-*. ; CkARACTER IN WHOM ALL OUR READRRS 
WILL RECOGNIZE AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

In those days there flourished at Ala- 
mance a gentleman by the name of Phile- 
mon Blister, who, having no business of 
his own to attend to, gave his attention to 
the affairs of the public. His family, all 
of whom were dead, had been respectable, 
and he possessed a small but comfortable 
estate ; but being a heterogeneous sort of 
man, he failed to obtain what he most de- 
sired, a wife ; and in process of time the 
i pursuit of one became with him a matter 
of absorbing interest and his sole occupa- 



tion. He was one of those men Who am 
permitted to take liberties with every one, 
and whom every one treats in the most 
free and familiar manner, never address- 
ing them in a formal way, and always 
calling them by their Christian names in 
an abbreviated form. Thus Mr. Philemon. 
Blister was universally called Phil; and 
the name of Phil, and his sayings and do- 
ings, were iii every body's mouth. At an 
early age he gave favourable indications 
'of genius for prying into the secrets of 
others ; and by the time he was grown up 
to man's estate his capacity in this respect, 
was so fully developed that there was not, 
at any time, any thing said or done iu any 
corner of Alamance which Phil did not 
immediately hear of. Equally great was 
his ability for reporting what he heard, or, 
rather, what, he did not hear; for it was im- 
possible for him to repeat a story without 
embellishing it with so many and such ex-' 
traordinary additions that the original au- 
thor, hearing it from his lips, would not have 
recognized it. He, being a bachelor, devo- 
ted himself particularly to the gallantries 
and courtships of the community — was al- 
ways the first person who knew of a pro- 
jected wedding, and was, for many years, 
one of the standing groomsmen of Ala- 
mance. His means were not extensive or 
abundant ; but with what he had he was 
close, and, although universally regarded 
as " a good-fellow," he had become some- 
what selfish. Indeed, like all men who 
are sensible enough to know they are not 
smart, Phil was not deficient in a sort of 
cunning ; and, looking on this life as a state, 
militant, and every body as his secret foe, 
he shielded himself with the armour of de- 
ception. In fact, after much study, and no 
little experience, he at last obtained what 
he was wont to call " the points of this 
world ;" in other words, he came to the 
conclusion that any one could get along 
who could deceive all his friends as to his 
intentions. And thus, though he was a 
leaky vessel for the secrets of others, he 
kept his own counsels, and never permit- 
ted even his nearest and best friends to 
know his real views and aims about any 
thing. For instance, while with gentle- 
men, he was, in his language about the la- 
dies, free, vulgar, and licentious, in a con- 
fidential way, however; and then, in the 
same strict confidence, he would tell the 
ladies of all the offensive remarks his 
friends had made about them. He was 
the sworn friend of every one, bound every 
one to secrecy, and told every one what 
he had heard every body else say. Thus, 
while others were exposing their secrets, 
and he was briskly circulating them over 
the community, his own intentions and 
feelings were a mystery. 

As before intimated, Phil had no partic- 
ular home; for his house, being desolate* 



46 



ALAMANCE. 



and his kindred, at least all his near kin- 
dred, being dead, he became a rover, and 
as ten thousand reports travelled with liim, 
he might aptly be compared to Rumour, 
with her thousand tongues. As he was 
powerless, even when he tried for good, 
and omnipotent when he didn't try for mis- 
chief, Henry Warden dreaded him. That 
young man had seen Phil often whispering 
to Edith, and he shuddered at the conse- 
quences. It was Phil's habit to see every 
lady who had been visited by a gentleman,, 
and tell her confidentially that it was gen- 
erally reported that she was engaged to be 
married. Hereupon the lady, especially 
if young and timorous, would become 
alarmed and indignant, and would, the 
next time she saw the gentleman in ques- 
tion, treat him so cavalierly that a quarrel 
was inevitable. To avoid, therefoie, the 
consequences of Phil's unhappy blunders 
the judge was studiously reserved in his 
presence, and hence Phil began to culti- 
vate Uncle Corny. This last-named, warn- 
ed by the judge, was still more costive 
than his friend, and thus, as Mr. Blister 
could ascertain from neither the object of 
the. approaching party, he scoured the 
neighbourhood in search of news. He was 
full of cant phrases and buffoon wit, and 
every man he met, at the time alluded to, 
he would quiz with some mysterious ex- 
pression about the approaching entertain- 
ment, and set his curiosity agog. Phil 
himself revealed nothingdirectly ; butthere 
was a world of unknown meaning in his 
questions, and he could startle a man even 
with the simple query, " Have you heard 
the news'?" 

The answer generally given was, " I un- 
derstand Uncle Corny Demijohn is going 
to give a great party." 

Whereupon Phil Blister, assuming a 
knowing and portentous look, would reply 
that it would be a party which some folks 
would long remember. Thus, one morn- 
ing, he met with Miss Whimididdle, a 
maiden lady of considerable experience, 
and, after the usual salutations, he asked 
her if she intended to honour the approach- 
ing party with her presence. 

'• If 1 were to consult my own wishes, 
I shouM not go," answered Miss Whim- 
ididdle ; " for I have no fondness for such 
things. Father and mother, however, in- 
sist on my attending, as a mark of respect. 
to the Demijohns, and I suppose 1 will 
have to go." 

'• Of course, you must go," said Phil ; " for 
you'll see something you little expect." 

"Indeed! And what is to happen?" 
asked Miss Whimididdle. 

" I'm mum," replied Phil Blister, "and 
can only say that 1 shouldn't be surprised 
if somebody is married shortly." 

"'Yon surely don't mean old Mother 
Demijohn 1" 



" Not exactly, I should think." 

" Then," said Miss W., it must be Uncle 
Corny. I have heard some rumours abuut 
him and the widow Fuller, whom, as you 
know, he has visited twice a month for the 
last two years. Well, well, and Uncle 
Corny is to be married at last ! I hope 
he'll be happy, though I should not covet 
the place of his bride." 

" Younger folks than Uncle Corny some- 
times get married," returned Phil. 

"And so they do," answered Miss W. ; 
" some folks that I think had better be at 
school, or with their mammas, a precious 
sight. It's shocking to think what the 
world is coming to, when every little boy 
and girl must have a sweetheart, and want 
to get married as soon as they reach their 
teens." 

"Do you think Edith Mayfield is old 
enough to run off to get married V asked 
Phil. 

" Edith Mayfield want to run off!" ex- 
claimed Miss Whimididdle, " Edith May- 
field want to get married ! — however, it's 
her business, not mine. Who in the world 
is silly enough to have such a young, 
giggling tomboy? It must be Henry 
Warden." 

'• You forget Ross," said Phil. 

" To be sure, I forgot him. Well, is he,, 
in fact, going to run away with Edith May- 
field? I always took hinv for a lunatic. 
Some people think he is a spy and a dan- 
gerous man, but 1 always told them' he 
was too big a fool to find the way back 
to where he came from." 

" I don't know who's a fool and who 
aint," replied Phil ; " ' and, therefore, I say 
unto you, as I say unto all, watch.' It may 
be lioss, and it may be Henry Warden ; it 
may be Uncle Corny, and it may be old 
Mother Demijohn. Mind you, I don't say 
who it is ; only keep a sharp look-out, and 
you'll see fun." 

Hereupon Phil Blister took leave, and 
intimated to all whom he afterwards saw 
that, as he had heard from Miss Whimi- 
diddle, Uncle Corny or his mother was to 
be married on the day of the anxiously- 
expected party. Miss Whimididdle, on 
her part, met with at least half a dozen 
during that day, to all of whom she com- 
municated, as a profound secret, the fact 
that Henry Warden or Ross was to run 
away with Edith Mayfield. As Phil Blis- 
ter had bound her to secrecy, she could not 
give her author; but she related it as cer- 
tain that Edith was to marry one of the 
two named, and that against the will of her 
parents. Other gossips took up the story 
where Miss Whimididdle left off, and, add- 
ing improvements of their own, the whole 
plan of escape, in all its minutest partic- 
ulars, became known', and was discussed 
at length at Alamance. The community 
was thrown into a feverish excitement, 



ALAMANCE. 



47 



some censuring and some defending Edith ; 
a thousand rumours got afloat, and all 
these rumours travelled about until they 
were received as settled facts. These re- 
ports, finally, became so general, and so 
authentic, and so untraceable, that Phil 
Blister, mounting his horse, kept them in 
brisk circulation, repeating them every- 
where as undoubted truths, settled by 
the authority of various persons, They 
reached, at last, the ears of the Glutsons, 
and were by them communicated to Ross. 
This mysterious individual was still hover- 
ing about Alamance, making his head- 
quarters at Nathan Glutson's, and visiting 
very little except at the house of Edith 
Mayfield's father. Being a suspected char- 
acter and but slightly acquainted with the 
Demijohns, he was not invited to the en- 
tertainment to be shortly given. He knew, 
of course, that he was not going to marry 
Edith ; bnt his ardent and jealous heart told 
him that Henry Warden would. The more 
he reflected on what he heard, and on what 
he himself had recently seen, the more was 
he satisfied that his youthful rival was 
about to carry off ihe prize for which both 
were eagerly contending, and all the fierce 
passions of his turbulent nature were in- 
stantly aroused to a fearful intensity. He 
was a gentleman by birth, by education, 
and association, and had ever been taught 
to prize his honour more dearly than his 
life ; but, then, he was also a lover — a fiery, 
impetuous lover — and to what follies and 
meanness will not the mania of love drive 
its votaries'? That's a question gravely 
put by the master; and, without stopping 
to quote his answer, we will simply add, 
that Ross was not proof against the pow- 
erful temptation. He convinced himself 
that a dire misfortune was about to happen 
to him; and when he saw, early in the morn- 
ing of the eventful day which was to ruin 
him, Edith Mayfield conducted by Uncle 
Corny to the latter's house, his wavering 
resolution was fixed at once. What that 
resolution was, and what were its imme- 
diate and remote results, will in due time 
appear. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FISH-FRY — "a KETTLE OF FISH." 

" Fish-fry is a technical term, used in 
the South to designate a pleasant sort of 
country- party. A person, having on his 
premises a stream or pond abounding in 
fish, invites his friends and neighbours to 
an entertainment, which is given in the 
green woods and near the water. A hand- 
some collation of cold provisions, and 
sometimes of wines and liquors is brought 
to the place by the servan-.s ; and here, 
also, the fish are prepared and cooked im- 



mediately after they are caught. Thus, 
at such parties, the amusements are va- 
ried, and partake of that zest and fresh- 
ness which Nature ever has for her lovers. 
All persons, old and young, freed from the 
restraints and conventional forms impos- 
ed in parlours and saloons, surrounded by- 
delightful scenes, inhaling the fragrance 
of buds and blossoms, and listening to the, 
songs of birds and the hum of bees, enjoy 
themselves with a peculiar relish ; and 
with minds improved, hearts bettered, and 
health invigorated, return again to their 
respective homes." 

Thus the master writes of fish-fries gen- 
erally ; and, after some grave and mor- 
al reflections, inspired by the subject, de- 
scribes, with great particularity, the famous 
one given by his friend Cornelius Demi- 
john, near the latter's mill, on the creek 
of Alamance. A large number of young 
and unmarried people honoured the festi- 
val with their presence; and, as it was a 
balmy day, the ladies, in their Spring cos- 
tumes, looked like personifications of pu- 
rity and simplicity. The woods echoed 
with the laughter of these gay and inno- 
cent maidens,, and for a while there was 
little progress made in the business of 
catching fish, for all were in a joyous hu- 
mour; and those arch anglers, the frolic- 
some gir.ls, were, without being conscious 
of it, entangling each a string of lovers. 
In the language of the master, " many a 
gudgeon was hooked eagerly snapping at 
the deceptive bait, and quietly suffering 
himself to be drawn up and prepared for 
the process of being fried and roasted." 
As the sun advanced up the clear heavens, 
and his beams became warmer, the young 
people ceased their wild pranks, and, pair- 
ing off, sought, in companies* of two, the 
most shady nooks on the banks of the 
pond, and seriously began the business of 
the day — to wit, making love, and angling 
for fish. The judge, however, was an ex- 
ception to this rule. He scarcely dared 
to speak to or look at Edith Mayfield, 
who, in her simple dress, shone with such 
surpassing beauty and sweetness, that she 
seemed a half-divine Dryad of the woods, 
in whom there was so little of the mortal, 
that even the boldest gallants regarded her 
with a timid and sacred reverence. Henry- 
Warden, more than ever in love, his fears 
and despondency increasing with his pas- 
sion, wandered about, solitary and abstract- 
ed, and so absorbed with his thoughts that 
his fishing-pole might have been jerked 
out of his hand without his being con- 
scious of the fact. Equally unsuccessful, 
but for a different reason, was Hector 
M'Bride. Having attached himself to his 
unlettered and taciturn friend, Tubroot, ho 
became extremely talkative, bobbing his 
line up and down in ihe water with such, 
an incessant motion, that the most hungry 



33 



ALAMANCE. 



roach or noldest catfish would not approach 
his hook. He entertained and enlighten- 
ed his silent and staring companion with 
a learned dissertation on the habits of fish, 
gave an account of the celebrated supper 
of Viteilius, as related by Suetonius, and 
did not forget his friend Walton, of whose 
life and character he spoke at length. 
Tubroot was prodigiously astonished at 
the extravagance of the man who pur- 
chased two thousand fish for one enter- 
tainment, and had galleys built for the 
purpose of conveying them all the way 
from the Straits of Gibraltar. He was still 
more astonished at other stories of Roman 
gluttony and magnificence : but he held 
his peace, like a prudent man, and became 
utterly bewildered as the master severely 
criticised the piscatory eclogues of Sanna- 
zarius, from which he made frequent and 
copious quotations in the original. 

During this time, Uncle Corny, mindful 
of the sacred trust committed to his care, 
and forgetful of every thing else, w r as re- 
volving in his mind various plans for the 
execution of his commission. Of course, 
lie became very silent and unusually grave : 
and as he attached himsel£ to Edith, and 
csrried her to a great distance from the 
company, she hardly knew what to think 
of him. She was aware, however, of his 
eccentric character, felt obliged tp him for 
his delicate attentions, and, with the ex- 
pectation of some rare sport at his ex- 
pense, she readily consented to go with 
him. They found at last a cool, pleasant, 
and retired place, and there they sat down, 
attracting the gaze of all the company, 
and causing many amusing remarks and 
comparisons, the most original of which 
-was that of the master, who said they re- 
aninded him of a violet peeping up by the 
side of a huge mushroom. After they 
had sat some time in silence, Uncle Corny 
began to blow as if each breath were to be 
his last, and with eyes rolling wildly, and 
a husky voice, essayed to speak. 

u Miss Edith," said he. 

" Uncle Corny !" answered Edith, look- 
ing him straight in the face. 

" Miss Edith," continued Corny, "I'm a 
poor diplomatist, and therefore will come 
to the point at once. Why do you hate 
jny friend Hem;y Warden V 

" 1 don't hate him, Uncle Corny." 

" Then why do you treat him so cruelly 1 
He is nearly distracted ; but still he adores 
you." 

Edith blushed and hung her head, and 
having nothing to say, held her peace. 

"He would give seventeen worlds," re- 
sumed Corny, " to know what you mean 
by sending back his letter. PoonJellow ! 
Low happy he would be if he were only 
liiiowed to speak to you as 1 do V 

"That he is not allowed ;o speak to 
iy>e-," replied Edith, " is his own fault. He 



has not come near me to-day, and sesmi 
very much disposed to cut my acquaint* 
ance." 

" How can he speak to you after what 
has happened ]" asked Demijohn. "Real 
love, they say, makes people fearful and 
suspicious; and I know that he is afraid 
to approach you, for he thinks it would be 
disagreeable to you. A thousand stories 
have been told on him, every one of which, 
I say, on my own responsibility, is au 
infernal lie, and the author a dastardly 
scoundrel." 

" Why, Uncle Corny !" 

" Excuse me, Miss Edith, my blood is 
up. Was there ever a more gentle, a 
more noble-hearted, brave, and intelligent 
youth than Henry 'Warden] His soul is 
as bright as the sun above us — his heart is 
the home of every thing that is honoura- 
ble, just, generous, and tender; and yet 
these malignant tattlers have slandered 
him till you, even you, who are so much 
like him, are ashamed to speak to him. 
Nor would you treat my friend so badly 
if you knew how unjustly and cruelly you 
are acting. Just think of it. < here is your 
old playmate, confident, and defender, your 
best friend, your most pleasant compan- 
ion who would at any moment be glad to 
die for you ; here is this frank, manly, and 
brave 'young man, who is going to the 
wars, and who does not dare to say fare- 
well to you ! Upon my soul 1 can hardly 
keep from crying myself, and yet, though 
he may be slain, and will die thinking of 
you to the very last, you cannot afford to 
give him a kind good-by !" 

"Did you say he is going to the wars, 
Uncle Corny ?" asked Edith, turning pale, 
and plainly exhibiting her emotion. 

" He is : he is going to draw his sword 
for his country ; and though he is but a 
boy he has a heart as big as that of Mars.. 
He will be among the foremost in the no- 
ble cause ; he will, I know, rush into the 
thickest of the fight, and his fair and youth- 
ful form will lie stiff, and cold, and man- 
gled on some bloody field. It is what he 
wants ; to run a short and bright career, 
and die a soldier's death, where he will 
sleep quietly with kindred spirits, far away 
from that home where his young heart was 
steeped in bitterness." 

During this speech Uncle Corny was 
himself too much affected to notice the ac- 
tions of Edith, who was searching for vio- 
lets that, did not exist, and who could not 
have distinguished one from a «uishroom, 
so blinded was she by the burning U ars 
that suffused her eyes, and fell, like liquid 
pearls, on the leaves around her. 

Both were silent for some minutes, when 
Edith, aftera struggle, asked, with a choked 
and tremulous voice, " When is Mr. War- 
den going 10 leave us IV 
"Very soon," answered Uncle Corny, 



ALAMANCE. 



49 



'** as* soon as he can be allowed to hid you 
farewell. He is afraid to attempt ft in 
person, and so lias requested me to say, as 
his last words to you, ' May God bless 
you.' and to hand you these verses." 

While, speaking. Demijohn rose to his 
feet, and, in the agitation and confusion of 
the moment, stepped backwards, and fell 
with a loud splash into the water. Th^ 
■waves swelled and rolled, as if a storm 
were blowing, and the whole pond was 
agitated from end to end. The plunge 
and the- screams of Edith Mayfield attract- 
ed the attention of the company, who, 
with more astonishment, than fear, saw 
Demijohn midway between the two shores 
and bareheaded, making a successful, but 
awkward and energetic effort at swim- 
ming, splashing the water about him like 
a chafed sea-horse or furious whale. He 
landed safely, having sustained no damage 
but the loss of his hat, and flooding the 
land wherever he went, with the moisture 
that streamed from his clothes. It be- 
came necessary for him to return to the 
house; and, as Edith's dress was damp 
from the spray caused by Corny's plunge, 
she started with him. They had walked 
but a short distance, when Isaiah Mayfield, 
accompanied by Koss and William Glutson, 
came dashing up at the full speed of their 
horses, old Mayfield being ahead. 

" God be praised, she's yet safe !" ex- 
claimed the old man, dismounting and seiz- 
ing Edith in his arms; "my child, my 
Eddie is yet safe! Oh, daughter! how 
could you have the heart to serve your 
father so! Hut never mind, don't weep; 
for I know you are innocent, and were 
misled by that visionary and unhappy 
youth. 1 forgive you," continued he, cry- 
ing all the tune; "I forgive you before 
you ask me. Come, darling, return again 
to your heart- broken mother." 

During this scene Corny Demijohn, bare- 
headed and in his dripping clothes, stood 
staring and stupefied with wonder, while 
he excited equal astonishment in the minds 
<of Ross and Glutson. Edith, covered with 
confusion at the strange conduct of her 
father, and unwilling to see him expose 
himself longer before his neighbours, said 
not a word, and quietly and silently suf- 
fered her father to carry her away. She 
knew his character too well not to sus- 
pect that he was labouring under some 
absurd delusion, but. she thought it best not 
to seek for or to make any explanations 
until she was alone with him. The old 
gentleman, overcome by his emotions, 
and loving his daughter too well to chide 
her in public, also became silent, and the 
party on horseback thus started back with- 
out caving another word. 

Tl'.e judge witnessed the whole scene, 
ar.d tearing some mistake, and anxious to 
come to a full understanding with Edith's 
D 



father, hurried off to overtake him, when 
he was arrested by Demijohn, who stood 
in his path. 

" Let me go, Uncle Corny," said Henry, 
struggling to release himself; " let me go, 
for I'm not in a humour to be trifled with." 

" I'll let you go when you are in a con- 
dition to go,"" quietly returned Uncle Cor- 
ny ; " yes, of course. I will. For the pres- 
ent you are my prisoner." 

"If you are deranged, or drunk," ex- 
claimed the judge, greatly excited, "I 
must tell you that you must play your 
foolish pranks on some other person. Let 
me loose, Mr. Demijohn, or by Heaven you 
shall rue it !" 

At which words he was firmly grappled 
in the arms of his keeper, and became as 
helpless as a child. He threatened, abus- 
ed, and entreated to no purpose, and 
seemed at last about to weep, when Corny 
said, in his kindest tones — 

" Henry, my son, it's useless to talk to 
me now. I know what is best for you, and 
I intend to do it — to be sure I do — and there- 
fore I shall not get angry. Curse away my 
lad, I'll not remember a word you say." 

" I have not cursed you, sir," replied 
Warden, " and you know I never swear. 
I care not whether you get angry or not ; 
I don't care who may get mad, for I'm 
done with the world and all that's in it. 
As you can have no reason for holding me 
longer, I'll thank you, sir, to release me, 
and not keep me here to be gazed at, and 
laughed at by the whole company." 

" Who's gazing, who's laughing?" thun- 
dered out Uncle Corny; "let me catch a 
mother's son of them at it and I'll instantly 
cut his throat — 1 will, by Jove ! I'm your 
friend, sir, 'I'll stand by you to the death. 
Heavens and earth! Aint I, Cornelius 
Demijohn, here at your side, prepared to 
draw my sword against the world, the flesh, 
and the devil, in your behalf!" 

Demijohn was himself, as his speech 
shows, becoming excited, and, working 
himself at last into a perfect fury, he re- 
leased the judge, grasped at his side for the 
hilt of an imaginary sword, and flourished 
his arms about him, when Hector M'Bride 
and Ben Rust came up. 

" Stand off!" exclaimed Uncle Corny, 
planting himself in a defensive position, 
and raising his sword-arm ; " stand off, you 
wretches, or, by Jove, I'll split you to the 
waist ! Who dares approach here while I 
stand in the front rank?" 

"Angels and ministers of grace defend 
us!" exclaimed the master; "are we in 
Bedlam, or is all the world crazy ?" 

"Let all Bedlam and all the world dare 
touch as much as a hair of his head," re- 
plied Corny. " if they want to be knocked 
into a cocked hat. I'm Cornelius Demi- 
john, sirs, and this is my friend; so ad- 
proach not '." 



50 



ALAMANCE. 



" Uncle Corny's a little soaky," said 
Rust, " and I'll bet there's an empty tickler 
in his pocket. Let's examine." 

This remark at once threw a flood of 
light on the whole affair, and it was soon 
ascertained that Demijohn, to counteract 
the effects of the external application of 
liquids, had copiously moistened his inner 
man with a stronger fluid. He acknowl- 
edged, himself, that his brain was a little 
giddy from his potations ; and, begging the 
master to return to his guests and apologize 
for his absence, he, followed by Rust and 
Warden, started again towards his house, 
planting his feet at every step as if he 
would drive them into the ground. His 
head would reel, notwithstanding all his 
efforts, and, taking hold of Rust's arm, he 
said, hiccuping : 

" Benjamin, my son, I do believe — I'm — 
tipsy. Yes — to be sure — I'm drunk. That 
last drink did the business ; it was too 
much, sir — too much. My friend, you 
must cure me — you must, before the old 
lady sees me." 

Now, Ben was an excellent physician 
in such cases, having before attended Un- 
cle Corny, when afflicted with his chronic 
complaint, administering to him with skill 
and success. He now trotted him briskly 
through the woods, frequently tripped him 
up, and so heated and worried him with 
hard exercise, that, by the time he ar- 
rived at his mother's, he was tolerably so- 
ber. Dry clothes, and a thorough ablution 
of his head in cold spring water, brought 
him entirely to himself, and prepared him 
to sit with Rust in council on the judge's 
case. The latter was moody and sad, and 
seemed little disposed to. speak of his dif- 
ficulties to any one. He could not but see, 
however, that he was in the presence of 
faithful friends ; and his heart, gradually 
yielding to the influence of kind words and 
looks, at length fully opened itself, and all 
its secrets and its sorrows were exposed. 

"It's my decided opinion," said Uncle 
Corny, " that the wicked little angel loves 
you— I believe — I know she does — and is 
only trying the strength of your attach- 
ment." 

In proof of this he recited what had 
taken place between himself and her in the 
morning; strongly painted her emotion, 
which he had witnessed ; and wound up 
with an indirect compliment to his own in- 
genuity. 

" One would hardly think you so cun- 
ning," said Warden, becoming pleased and 
interested. 

" Folks don't know me," replied Corny. 
" They say Uncle Corny's honest, and he's 
brave, and. good-natured, but he's not a 
Solomon. I am not a Solomon; to be sure 
I ani not. But could he have done better 
than I did ? "Would he have thought of 
jumping into the water, just as he handed 



Edith the poetry, to prevent her from re- 
turning it 1 She's got it now in her bosom. 1 ' 

"Is it possible you fell into the water 
by design V asked the judge. 

" Possible, indeed ! it's a fact — no doubt 
of it." . 

" Uncle Corny," exclaimed Henry War- 
den, rising, " here's my hand, and with it 
goes my heart. Forgive me for my harsh- 
ness — forgive me, I entreat you ; for from 
this day I will look on you as one of my 
best friends, and, what I always thought 
you, a noble-hearted gentleman. I was 
deranged, mad, and knew not what I was 
about." . . 

" I've forgotten every thing you said," 
replied Corny ; " on my soul I have, and 
whoever reminds me of it shall taste the 
edge of my sword— he shall, by Jupiter!" 

" Proximus, the next," said Rust, getting 
on his feet ; " its my turn now to speak, and 
I'll jist give my opinion of the whole mat- 
ter. I'll do like the parson — take a text, 
and divide my discourse into several heads. 
I would, then, my Christin friends," con- 
tinued he in a drawling tone, " direct your 
attention for a few minutes to the first 
verse of the forty-second chapter of the 
Scriptur of Common Sense. It is in these 
words : ' Man is man, and woman is woman.'' 
Now, by these words we are to under- 
stand two things : first, that man aint 
woman ; and, secondly, that woman aint 
man. Man is one kind of human, crittur; 
woman is another kind. Man was born 
with one kind of natur, and woman with 
another ; and whoever will jist recollect 
that fact will know more about females 
than old Proximus has larned by twenty 
years of hard study. Man loves war, 
power, books, paintins, music, and natur ; 
woman likes show, dress, flowers, and flir- 
tation. Man judges you by the colour of 
your principles and the cut of your char- 
acter ; woman by the colour of your coat 
and the cut of your breeches. Now, natur 
has done all this, and what's the use of 
grumblin about it 1 It's all a matter of 
opinion ; and, while you are findin fault 
with a gal for bein deceitful and havin no 
taste for books and larnin, haint she got 
as much right to despise you because 
your back is crooked and your legs aint 
straight 1 The men look with contempt 
on women because they've got no minds 
and never read Shakspur; the women 
scorn the men what haven't got whiskers 
and never killed no one in a duel. Who's 
right and who's wrong is not the queston 
now. Woman, bein what she is, must be 
treated accordin to her natur, and must be 
expected to act accordin to her natur. To 
undertake to influence her in the same way 
that you would influence a man is as silly 
as to bait your fish-hook with a quotation 
from Shakspur, or abatch of sentimental po- 
etry. You must use the right bait and what 



ALAMANCE. 



51 



is that 1 The judge has fished long enough 
with love, wit, larnin, affection, good- 
ness, and honour ; and if these haint done 
any good its no use tryin them any longer. 
Let him go to the wars, kill a dozen or two 
of Britishers, and come home with fierce 
whiskers on his face, flamin buttons on his, 
coat, and red blood on his sword, and, 
Lord ! how the gals will shoal around him ! 
Now for the second grand division of my 
discourse. I don't believe Edith is like 
some gals ; I know she aint. I will say 
now what I never said before, but what 
I've always knowed ; she loves Henry 
"Warden, she has loved him from a child, 
and she always will love him while she 
lives. I've got two eyes and a pair of 
ears, and I know what I know. As old 
Proximus says, I'm ' not a prophet, nor the 
son of a prophet ;' but I'll prophesy one 
thing : Edith will be a woman, ias a woman 
ought to be ; and in the very toughest 
times, in the very hardest trials, she'll 
shine out like a rainbow in a storm. But, 
thirdly and lastly, there's a third kind of 
folks — the betweenity race — who have no 
natur at all, and who I call man-grannies. 
Old Mayfield is one of these, and it aint no 
use to'talk to him at all. He haint got the 
reason of man, nor the feelin of woman ; 
and how are you goin to touch him 1 He's 
opposed to the judge, and he's got a no- 
tion that Henry and Edith want to marry 
each other right off; and you may work 
on him till the day of judgment, and you'd 
never beat that notion out of his head. He 
hates and fears every body who aint like 
himself. Because the judge is open- 
hearted, smart, and brave, he looks on him 
as somethin terrible, and thinks he's al- 
ways tryin to sarcumvent, undermine, and 
blow him up. He's got these idees into 
his head, and the more honourable Henry 
acts, and the more he triesto explain him- 
self, the more skeery does old Squattle- 
brain git. He's in an awful fright now, 
and it'll grow on him till the day of his 
death. What's to be done? Why, jest 
wait and watch, and leave the rest to Prov- 
idence and to Edith. I'll swear by her; 
for I believe in her, and know she will 
bring all things to rights. Them's my 
sentiments." 

The sound sense displayed in some of 
these remarks, coarse and homely as they 
were, struck both Corny and the judge, 
though the latter secretly felt a disincli- 
nation " to wait." He, however, held his 
peace, and Demijohn assenting to the ad- 
vice of Rust, the council adjourned. 



CHAPTER XV. 

A LADY CONFIDENT AND A SENTIMENTAL LADY. 

Impatience that cannot brook delay and 
a disposition to make confidents, are the 



curses of lovers. On each of these rocks 
many a gallant bark, freighted with tender 
hopes, has been wrecked ; and yet wooers, 
like statesmen, however much they may 
study and descant on the disastrous exper- 
iments of the past, will still, when their 
own time comes to act, follow in the beaten 
track. Thus it was with Henry Warden. 
The night after his consultation with Rust 
and Demijohn, he spent in profound medita- 
tion, studying not what was best for him, but 
how he should be able immediately to ascer- 
tain the feelings of Edith Mayfield towards 
him. He could not wait for the develop- 
ments and the just arbitrament of Time, who 
is, at last, the safest friend of the persecuted, 
the great vindicator of Truth. The judge, 
notwithstanding his late experience, still 
secretly believed in the integrity, the kind- 
ness, and just discrimination of the sex ; 
and who that has been raised by a mother, 
cannot so confide 1 He resolved to make 
a female confident, believing that such a 
one would be the most cautious and safe 
adviser, and would also have the most fa- 
vourable opportunities of sounding the sen- 
timents of Edith. Now, there was stay- 
ing at Alamance a Miss Artemesia Thril- 
lingpipes, a northern lady, and sister to 
the wife of a Presbyterian clergyman who 
was travelling through the country. She 
was at that ripe age when the tender vir- 
tues of the maiden-lady are most conspic- 
uous, and every tongue was eloquent in 
praise of her amiable and obliging disposi- 
tion. She lent a patient and attentive ear 
to the complaints of every one, and every 
sorrowing heart found in her an active 
sympathizer, and a friend ready to do as 
well as to advise. She seemed to be her- 
self so nicely strung, that the lightest touch 
of sentiment thrilled some chord in her 
gentle breast ; and she was withal of a 
highly romantic turn. She detested the 
dull common-places of every-day life, was 
fond of strange dilemmas and unnatural 
adventures, and was one of those rare 
creatures who know how to appreciate 
those persecuted beings whom the world 
does not understand, and who do not un- 
derstand themselves ; in a word, she was 
one of those diviner few who are born in 
a world of their own, and who breathe, 
and move, and have their being in a sub- 
limated and rarefied atmosphere, where 
grosser mortals can no more exist than a 
rat in an exhausted receiver. She was 
literary and sentimental ; and while the 
gentlemen all called her interesting, the 
ladies generally agreed that she was very 
handsome. True, her complexion was a 
little sallow, and the nicely-braided curls 
which shaded it, and the eyes which light- 
ed it, were of an undefinable colour; but 
then her teeth were very white, her waist 
very slender, and her hand and her foot 
of the smallest possible dimensions. Tq 



52 



ALAMANCE. 



the master and the judge she had been ex- 
tremely kind and complaisant, the former 
finding in her a flattering and untiring lis- 
tener, who echoed all his sentiments, and 
the latter an agreeable companion, of a 
tenderly pensive disposition, who loved to 
discourse of unrequited love, mysterious 
communion of souls, flowers, poetry, and 
broken hearts. To her, the thoughts of 
Henry Warden now recurred, and he paid 
her a visit. She received him very gra- 
ciously, and seeming to divine his inten- 
tions, wore a look of sad and affectionate 
interest. He was at first much embarrass- 
ed, but she kindly helped him on with his 
story until he was able to finish it himself. 
She heaved a sigh, and, after musing a 
while, said, in her softest tones, 

" You have been, indeed, unfortunate, 
but such is the way of the world. Such 
people as you are must not. expect to be 
understood' by mankind, whose persecu- 
tions are the tax we have to pay for those 
peculiar enjoyments which are all our 
own." 

'■ Yes ; but Edith can understand me," 
replied Warden, '■ if she knew me. and this 
is all I ask. She must have been misled." 

41 It is quite possible," returned Miss 
Thrillingpipes ; for there are gossips every 
where. She is a very pretty and amiable 
girl, and 1 do not blame you, Mr. W T arden, 
for taking an interest in this matter. If I 
can serve you in any way, I should be 
most happy to do it." 

'.' What I want you to do is this," said 
the judge : " I wish you to see her ; to tell 
her my views, and all that 1 have written 
and done, and let her say candidly what 
she thinks of my conduct. Ask her if she 
read my letters, and if she did, what she 
meant by returning them. It is easy for 
you, being a lady, to ascertain these things ; 
and be assured, thaj. if you will do me this 
favour, you will find in me a true friend 
while you live." 

" My own heart shall reward me," an- 
swered Miss Artemesia; "and though the 
task is more difficult than you imagine, I 
will do my best for you. I will stay with 
her to-night, and to-morrow morning, if 
you have leisure to call on me, 1 will let 
you know the result." 

" I can always find leisure to call on one 
so generous," exclaimed the judge, " and 
hope that I will yet be able to show the 
gratitude of my heart. I cannot say much 
to my friends, but I think and I remember.' 1 '' 

" You are a flatterer, Mr. Warden," re- 
plied Miss Artemesia, with a desperate 
effort to muster a faint blush ; " for 1 know 
no one can remember me. Indeed, how 
can I interest a gentleman so intellectual 
as yourself!" 

" He is not a gentleman, nor intellec- 
tual," said the gallant judge, " who knows 
you and takes no interest in you. Ex- 



cuse me for my bluntncss, for my heart is 
touched." 

"I'll excuse you for this time," said 
Miss Artemesia, laughing; "but for fear 
you commit, a more unpardonable sin, Til 
turn the subject." 

Hereupon, Miss Artemesia Thrilling- 
pipes got upon books and romances; and 
after some not very intelligible discourse, 
the judge took his leave, impressed with 
the belief that. Miss Artemesia had a good 
heart and an enquiring mind* but that, her 
education had been irregular, and her read- 
ing somewhat desultory. "It is all the 
fault of the schools," thought, he, "for sho 
is capable- of the highest polish." 



. CHAPTER XVI. 

A SCENE BEHIND THE CURTAIN, AND ONE IN 
FRONT. 

" And you think him handsome'?" asked 
Miss Artemesia Thrillingpipes. 

" I did not say that," answered Edith, 
blushing; "I said he was not such as you 
represented him, nor is he." 

" There is no accounting for tastes," re- 
turned Miss Arty, "and, therefore, we'll 
not quarrel about the matter. Indeed, ho 
is hardly worth a quarrel." Edith was 
silent, and Miss Artemesia resumed : "■ I 
had heard that he was visionary, but 1 was 
hardly prepared to meet with one so ab- 
surd and wild in his notions. He is partic- 
ularly deranged on the subject, of love, and 
I do not blame you for having forbid him 
to speak to you." 

'' Who says that I have forbid him to 
speak to me ?" asked Edith, raising herself 
in the bed; "it's astonishing how many 
stories can get in circulation !" 

"If I have told a story, Miss Edith, I 
have good authority for it. I should sup- 
pose Mr. Warden himself is good author- 
ity." 

" Henry Warden never tells a lie," re- 
plied Edith. 

" Then, I suppose, you don't believe he 
said so !" 

" If he did he was deceived by some 
things that have happened, for I know he 
would not tell a story on any one." 

" Men are very deceiving," said Miss 
Thrillingpipes, " and, for my part, I don't 
trust any of them." 

" But I do trust in Henry Warden," an- 
swered Edith; "and all the world could 
not make me believe he is deceitful, or 
would do a mean thing. As for his being 
absurd in his notions, people may differ-m 
opinion. -I have mine, and 1 shall never 
change it." 

" Take care, Edith, you may rue the day 
you have been so confiding. You may yet 
be deceived and betrayed." 

" If I am it will not be by Mr. Warden. 



ALA M A N C E. 



53 



I could trust my life and my honour in his 
hands, and feel as safe as if my own father 
was watching over me." 

" Out at last !" exclaimed Miss Arteme- 
sia : " I knew you loved him. The beating 
of this little heart tells me so. Am I not 
right, sweet child ]" 

Edith was confused and disgusted at the 
familiarities of her new friend ; but, shock- 
ed as her sensibilities were, she was too 
amiable and too regardful of Miss Arteme- 
sia's feelings to show her displeasure. She 
therefore covered her head and said noth- 
ing; when her companion proceeded: 

" Why do you not make a confident of 
me, Edith ] I love you as if you were my 
sister, and I'm sure I'd keep your secret 
•as sacred as if it were my own. You 
need not fear me, for every one trusts me 
with their love affairs. " 

" Please let's go to sleep," said Edith, 
* for I'm very tired. Would you believe 
it] I have walked six miles to-day, and 
done a great many other things besides. 
Father has a negro quarter about two miles 
from here, and I have been there to carry 
some medicines and sweet things to Aunt 
Hannah, who is very old and sickly ; then 
I went to see old Mother Johnson, whom 
I visit once a-week, and who calls me her 
chatterbox ; then I went to see if the 
Causeys, who are very poor, needed any 
thing, and from there I came home. Six 
miles did I say] It's more than that, for 
it's two to father's quarter, two from there 
to Mother Johnson's " 

"Edith," said Miss Thrillingpipes, inter- 
rupting her calculation, "nevermind about 
the number of miles. I have a secret of 
great importance to communicate to you, 
and it deeply concerns you as well as me. 
Will you swear to me never to tell to any 
one what I am going to relate to you]" 

"1 would not. swear to save my life," 
answered Edith ; " but I'll promise." 

" Will you also be as candid with me as 
I am with you ] We are both interested 
in this matter." 

" I will not tell you a story," said Edith. 

"You must know, then," resumed Miss 
Artemesia, "that I had good reasons for 
speaking to you as I have about Henry 
Warden. Pie has actually had the impu- 
dence to make love to me— lie still, my 
dear, and hear me out. He has made love 
to me— don't be so fidgety — and has tried to 
make me believe that he never addressed 
you, and never loved you— .I'll get up if 
you can't be more quiet. He said it was 
all a story about his being fond of you : 
that you and he had been friendly and inti- 
mate, and that all at once you got mad 
at him, abused and insulted him, and 
tried to show your spite in various ways. 
He acknowledged that he had written to 
you, but he declared most solemnly that 
lie md it only because he respected your 



father, and did not wish to be at enmity 
with the daughter of a man he esteemed so 
much. I did not believe him, but he was 
so earnest that 1 thought I would consult 
you before I gave him an answer. He is 
too much of a boy for me, any how, but I 
thought I would find him out before Idis- 
carded him, and give him such an answer 
as he deserves. Are you asleep] Edith, 
child, what ails you ] Can't you speak to 
me ]" 

" I don't want, to talk," answered Edith, 
with a voice that sounded asjf it were in 
fact difficult for her to articulate a word. 

" My dear, sweet child," said Miss Arty, 
" I am almost sorry I told you of Henry 
Warden's duplicity; but it. is better for 
you to hear of it now than hereafter. 
What, a base heart he must have so to de- 
ceive an innocent and confiding girl ; and 
me, yes, me too, be has tried to injure ! But 
it's not too late to punish him, and we will 
do it. I feel exceedingly indignant at his 
attempted tricks, for flow I know that he 
has been tampering with you, and told me 
a falsehood. Come, child, don't weep so ; 
why, you sob as if your heart were break- 
ing. Dry your tears, and let us consult 
how we shall take revenge." 

" He hasn't injured me," replied Edith 
Mayfield, sobbing convulsively ; " and, if he 
had, I don't want to hurt him. It's all my 
fault, and God knows I am paying dearly 
for it. Please don't talk to me any more." 

Miss Artemesia slept soundly, and dream- 
ed sweetly that night ; but her young com- 
panion did not close her eyes ; and never 
did a fevered patient look more impatiently 
for the dawn. 

At early light the latter was up ; and, 
for the first time in her life, she surveyed 
with some attention the reflection of her 
charms in the mirror. She did not believe 
she was very handsome, but she could not 
but contrast the fresh roses of her cheeks, 
the starry lustre of her eyes, and the deli- 
cate symmetry of her form with the angu- 
lar person, the dry and yellow skin, and 
the frightful looks of her who was just 
rising from her couch. They say, thought 
Edith, that Henry is a visionary, and sees 
strange things that other folks cannot see ; 
it must be so if he loves that horrid wom- 
an. He can't love her; he don't love her; 
and therefore she must have told me a lie. 
But would a young lady commit such a 
sin] When she asked herself this ques- 
tion she looked again at her late bed-mate, 
and she became satisfied that Miss Arte- 
mesia would be more likely to tell a lie 
than Henry Warden. Nevertheless, she 
was still troubled with anxious doubts, and 
as soon as her visiter left, she hurried to 
her father's quarter to see the-faithful old 
Hannah. 

On the same morning, Henry Warden, 
according to promise, called on Miss Arte- 



54 



ALAMANCE. 



mesia Thrillingpipes, and was welcomed 
in such a benignant manner that he almost 
believed he would hear favourable news. 

" Tell me at once, Miss Arty," said he ; 
" for I can talk about nothing else till I 
know t^/e success of your errand." 

" Edith is very pretty," answered Miss 
Thrillingpipes. ' 

" She's beautiful," rejoined the judge 
with animation ; " and that is not all, she's 
as good as she's beautiful." . 

" Good," replied Miss Arty, " is a word 
used with various meanings. That Edith 
is a good sort of a girl, in the common 
sense of the word, I have no doubt ; for 
she seems amiable enough. It is not, 
however, for such as you to call her good, 
Mr. Warden." 

" What do you mean V asked the judge ; 
" I don't understand you." 

" I mean that no one is good who can- 
not appreciate a gentleman like you. Poor 
Edith is a giddy young girl, with a head 
filled with novelties? She thinks only of 
beaux, dresses, the latest fashions, the 
latest gossip, and all such trifles. I could 
make nothing out of her." 

" That was because you were somewhat 
of a stranger to her," said Henry W T arden, 
" and she was afraid to confide in 3'ou. 
When you know her better, you will find 
her totally different from what you now 
think her." 

" Perhaps I may," returned Miss Arty ; 
"but I flatter myself I am a pretty good 
judge of character. I can tell from the 
bud what the flower will be." 

"What did she say about mel" asked 
Warden : " Why did she return my let- 
ters 1 What does she think of me ?" 

" All I could get out of her," answered 
Miss Thrillingpipes, "was that she hoped 
Mr. Warden would pester her no more. 
Those were her very words. She said 
she believed you were half-cracked, and 
made herself merry over some of the most 
beautiful passages in your letters. I am 
astonished that a gentleman of your sa- 
gacity should have been so deceived in 
her. Still, when I get better acquainted, 
I may find her different." 

" She surely didn't repeat any passages 
from my letters, and laugh at them, did 
she?" 

" I don't think she recollected the words ; 
it was only the sentiment she ridiculed." 

" Never, never shall I like woman again !" 
exclaimed Warden, passionately. " Hence- 
forth I am done with the sex forever !" 

" Shame, shame on you, Mr. Warden, 
for permitting the silly fancies of one giddy 
girl to make you so ungallant. All ladies 
are not alike ; for I know there are some 
who can appreciate the tender sensibility 
of a heart like yours." 

And here Miss Artemesia Thrillingpipes 
put on her most intellectually pensive 



looks, while her eyes gleamed with im- 
mortal and inexpressible tenderness. 

" If Edith Mayfield is what you say she 
is, I care not what the others are," said 
the judge ; " and -never shall care to know. 
I had rather believe she is an angel than 
to know others really are." 

" I forgive you for the left-handed com- 
pliment," replied Miss Artemesia, serious- 
ly ; " for I know you will some day find 
out who can and does understand you." 

" I know now that you are my friend," 
replied Henry, rising and holding out his 
hand ; " and cold will be my heart when I 
forget your kindness. Farewell !" 

Miss Thrillingpipes softly pressed his 
hand, and gave him a look whose fright- 
ful pathos would have deranged his deli- 
cate nerves had he not been in a condition 
to notice nothing. On the road he over- 
took old Hannah, who was hobbling to- 
wards his father's, and who handed him a 
sealed paper. He opened it, and found 
only his farewell verses ; and in regard to 
the return of which Hannah could make 
no explanations, except that Miss Eddie 
told her to give the paper to Master Henry. 

For once in his life the judge made a 
safe confident. Struck with the honest 
and intelligent face of the old negress, he 
explained to her the character and object 
of the verses, told her of the mission of 
Miss Artemesia Thrillingpipes, and of its 
result, and declared that every effort he 
made to find out the sentiments of Edith 
only involved him in deeper mystery. He 
had hopes of gleaning something from 
Hannah ; but the slave, from ignorance or 
fidelity, could give him no satisfactory in- 
formation, and he returned home to pass a 
night as wretched as the last one had been 
to Edith. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

" I'd rather meet 
A witch far north than a fine fool in love." 
Thos. Middleton. 

" Phil Blister, also, to his great joy, 
found a sincere friend in Miss Artemesia 
Thrillingpipes. The truth is, things had 
come to such a pass with Phil, and his 
matrimonial prospects were so dull, that the 
main question with him was not ' whom 
shall I marry 1 ?' but 'whom can I get?' 
Such a character (I mean the wife-hunter) 
is of all others the most disagreeable to 
me, excepting only the woman who is 
rabid for a husband." 

These remarks are taken from the mas- 
ter's notes, and are prefatory to some in- 
teresting incidents connected with the sub- 
jects of love and romance. That devotee 
of both, Miss ArtemesiaThrillingpipes, won 
daily on the confidence of Henry Warden, 
whom she fed with vain hopes of hearing 
something definite from Edith Mayfield. 



ALAMANCE. 



55 



Now, Phil Blister noticed the frequent 
visits of the judge, and, inflamed with jeal- 
ousy, and satisfied that the lady of his 
heart was an object of interest to every 
one, he briskly pushed on his suit. Miss 
Artemesia, believing that she had three 
strings to her bow, and having mentally 
arranged her suitors into a sort of sliding- 
scale, at the top of which was the judge, 
and at the bottom Phil Blister, , was not in 
a hurry to make up her mind in regard to 
the latter's proposals. Thus was Phil in 
great mental agony for several weeks, and, 
putting all his wits to work, and riding day 
and night, he fairly deluged the neighbour- 
hood with lies. He gave no credit to the 
solemn asseverations of the master and 
the judge, that they had no designs on the 
susceptible heart of Miss Artemesia, and 
even thought Uncle Corny was also smit- 
ten. So convinced was he that his mis- 
tress was a universal belle, reigning in the 
hearts of all, that there is no telling what 
might have happened had not a fortunate 
accident intervened. Miss Artemesia's 
brother found it necessary, in the prosecu- 
tion of the business of his mission, to pay 
a short visit to Virginia, and his wife and 
her sister accompanied him thither. The 
last-named, before she left, promised to 
correspond with the judge, and was to 
write the first letter in order to let him 
know where to direct his. She was not 
long in redeeming her promise ; and as the 
letter was followed by important conse- 
quences, and is in itself a curiosity, as a 
specimen of the epistolary abilities of a 
literary and sentimental lady, we give it 
entire, leaving out only the date and the 
name of the place where it was composed. 
The master preserved it with great care, 
as a most precious document ; and as we 
therefore copy from the original, which 
can be inspected by any one, we hope we 
will not be accused of having added to or 
taken from this rare production. 

Miss Artemesia to Henry Warden. 

" I hope you will not think, Mr. Warden, that, 
because 1 have not written sooner, I have for- 
gotten you or the dear scenes we have passed 
together at Alamance. Oh, no ! I never can 
forget you, and have not ceased to think of you 
every moment since we parted ; hut the truth 
is, I have been much pestered by the calls of 
gentlemen, and by invitations to parties. I am 
compelled, out of politeness, to go to these places, 
though I never had much fancy for them, being 
always of a retiring disposition. I often think 
when the silly dandies are crowding round me, 
and teasing me with their disgusting flattery, 
of the lines of my favourite poet Crusoe : 
' O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless ambiguity of shade !' 

And I may add — 

Where ladies are not fond of dress, 
And no compliments are paid. 

Thus, you will perceive, I am a sort of poetess 
myself, though it is very hard for me to write 



my bounding and cerulean thoughts. I often 
feel poetical indeed, especially in the dim si- 
lence of the night, when all are locked in the 
arms of Orpheus, and my eyes only are watch- 
ing the desultory stars in the void expanse 
above; but I never yet could acquire any do- 
cility for making rhymes. And, by the way, 
speaking of poetry, reminds me of a scene in 
one of Shakspeare's plays — I think it is in the 
Prince of Hamlet, where Othello says — 

'I had rather be a cat, and cry mew, than a poet.' 
Now, will you not agree with me that these 
were not the author's own sentiments ; for was 
he not agreat and extraneous poet himself? 
And were not Sallust, Cato, and Mark Anthony 
poets among the ancients 1 And were not Mil- 
ton, Plutarch, Hudibras, and Cromwell poets 
among the moderns'! And yet who was greater 
than these? I am a lover of poets and poetry, 
and I think it the most pleasant reading in the 
world. With what pleasure have I devoured ' 
' the Crusades,' by Julius Caesar, and the ro- 
mantic wars between the Dutch and Trojans in 
the fifteenth century ! How have I melted at 
the tale of the forlorn Dido, whose heart was 
broken by Henry the Eighth on his return from 
the Holy Land, and kindled at the strains of the 
immortal Avon ! I love, too, to read of Richard 
the Black Prince, who drove the Moors out of 
Africa. But my favourite hero is Falstaff, who 
overthrew the Pyramids in a pitched battle, and 
routed the Troubadours on the plains of Sala- 
manca, where he left seventy-five thousand 
dead Saracens on the field. O that I had some 
one to talk to about these things ! — some kin- 
dred spirit, like your own, to laugh with me 
over the humour of the immortal Coke, and 
weep at the mournful fall of the gallant Goths 
in Constantinople ! — to tread the flowery fields 
of Bacon's fancy, and wander, in imagination, 
through the now deserted streets of Carthage, 
where Virgil's song is heard no more, and 
merry ^Esop's tavern lies in ruins ! But I am 
out of place ; I am among a people who do not 
understand me, and between whom and myself 
there is no communion of soul. To show you 
what sort of gentlemen we have, I will describe 
to you the belles whom they most admire. Miss 
Squizzleborough is thought to sing divinely, 
and yet I had as soon hear a pig in the last ag- 
onies of death, or the screaming of a hundred 
and fifty cats all at once. Miss Saddletree is 
admired for her smartness, and, would you be- 
lieve me, she cannot tell whether Alexander ¥ 
the Great or the Duke of Marlborough gained 
the great battle of Charlemagne, and did not 
know, until I informed her, that the Prince of 
Wales is the Governor of Gibraltar, and the 
chancellor of the woolsack the chief of the 
Highland Clans. When I told her that the wild 
Irish were caught in Patagonia, and that the 
pensioned poets of England generally resided 
on the Peak of Tenerifle, she seemed as much, 
astonished as if she had heard some new and 
startling intelligence. The other two fashion- 
able toasts, Miss Pendergrass and Miss Riggles, 
are famous — the one for her beauty, and the 
other for her dancing. The beautiful lady 
has carroty hair, eyes more like a New-Eng- 
land fog than any thing else I can think of just 
now, and is good for nothing but to ogle and 
show her teeth ; while the celebrated dancer 



56 



ALAMANCE. 



bounces through the room like a showman on 
a spring-board. I am not envious; gracious 
knows, I have attentions enough paid to me, 
without wishing any more from the rustic gen- 
tlemen of the place, not one of whom lias ever 
read Pluto, or resembles Jupiter, Syphax.orDon 
Quixote, or any of the other heroes of Shak- 
speare's tragedies. When I think, my friend, 
how few are like you — when I reflect, as I often 
do, on my lonely and desolated situation, I feel 
half disposed to turn Pope, and retire into a 
monastery where I can spend rny life in med- 
itation, and in the perusal of such romances as 
the sweet and touching loves of Sancho Panza 
and Rosa Nautz. If I do, I shall still remem- 
ber you, and shall constantly pray that you may 
find some one who can depreciate as she ought 
the sensibility of a heart like yours, and who 
will regard you with that fraternal composure 
which shall forever bOrn in my kindred breast 
for you. Don't forget to write soon, and at 
length. I shall devour your letter, and hope 
you will dila>e at large, with that kindling so- 
phistry -with which you are so eloquent, and 
which I so much delight to hear. Brother and 
sister send their love, and I my respects and 
my sincere wishes for your utter and total fe- 
licity here and hereafter. Adieu ! 

" Artemesie. 
"P. S. — Just before I left Alamance, I heard 
Edith speak very lightly of you. I hope you 
have forgotten your unhappy passion for that 
giddy girl. You will never be yourself uniil 
you tear her from your heart, of which she is so 
totally unworthy." 

The master, to whom Henry Warden 
exhibited this extraordinary epistle, pe- 
rused it over and over again, first silently 
and then aloud, falling, at each time, into 
convulsions of laughter. He finally read 
it sentence by sentence, wjth a running 
and extempore commentary on each, and 
for an hour at least he and the judge were 
so merry that they forgot all their earthly 
cares and sorrows. Many of the remarks 
of M'Bride are preserved in his notes; but 
as they are extremely caustic and unmer- 
cifully humorous, and as some of the rela- 
tives and friends of Miss Thrillingpipes are 
still in existence, and may read these pages, 
we feel disposed to save their feelings even 
by withholding what might be highly ac- 
ceptable to others. 'The two friends un- 
derstood at once the character and designs 
of the writer ; and the master, for the sake 
of fun, was for keeping up the currespoiwl- 
ence. The judge, however, was already 
sick of the game, and immediately com- 
posed the following answer: 

"Alamance, 17 — 

"Mr. Henry Warden offers his grateful ac- 
knowledgments to Miss Thrillingpipes for the 
high opinion she has expressed of him in her 

letter of the , and desires, by this note, to 

close the correspondence. He is of opinion 
that false impressions might be produced by 
farther intimacy, and as Mr. Philemon Blister 
is already jealous of him, he »va:'.-s himself of 
the occasion to say that he is not and expects 



not to be that gentleman's rival. Mr. W. will, 
remember Miss Artemesia for the kind and 
faithful manner in which she complied wiih his 
request to bring about a reconciliation between 
himself and his friend Miss E. H. W." 

Hector M'Bride was perfectly enraptured 
with this note, and immediately carried it 
and Miss Artemesia's to Editli May-field, to 
whom he handed them to read, and who, 
after their perusal felt her innocent heart 
fairly dance within her. To prevent, her 
father from observing her emotion, she 
hastened to her own chamber, and there, 
falling on her knees, poured out the grateful 
offerings of her sinless breast to Heaven; 
and then, throwing herself ou her bed, 
wept for hours in an ecstasy of pleasure. 
The master returned with information of 
what he had done, and of Edith's abrupt 
departure from the room, and was tolera- 
bly certain that he saw several tears drop 
from her eyes as site ran. Warden's note 
was duly despatched, and as we are now 
on the subject, we will extract from the , 
master's notes the conclusion of Phil Blis- 
ter's history. 

"I may as well," writes he, "make a 
finish of these characters at once, without 
awaiting the order of events or stopping 
now to record previous and more import- 
ant matters. Philemon Blister and Henry 
Warden's note reached Miss Thrillingpipes 
about the same time ; and if the coldness of 
the latter threw her into convulsions of 
rage, the warmth of the former acted as 
an extremely soothing balm to her wounded 
heart. Although 1 am confident that Phil 
never read a book through in his life, and 
had about as intelligible an idea of senti- 
ment as a man born blind has of colours, 
he found little difficulty in engaging him- 
self to the romantic and accomplished Ar- 
temesia Thrillingpipes. She now, no doubt 
to enhance her value in her lover's eyes, 
informed him that Henry Warden and my- 
self had been at. her feet, and that Uncle 
Corny had long been desirous of offering 
himself as a candidate for her hand, but she 
never could endure his presence. Twice, 
she said, she had rejected my proposals, 
and thrice those of the judge, and intimated, 
in terms by no means ambiguous, that she 
had fled to Virginia to get rid of our im- 
portunities. Was not Phil happy at this 
information'? Did he not feel like Tain 
O'Shanter, 

' O'er all the ills of life victorious ?' 

As my friend, Cornelius Demijohn would 
say, to be sure he did. He forthwith h;:d 
the blooming and blushing Thrillingpipes 
united indissolubly to himself, he and his 
friends regarding the achievement as hav- 
ing no parallel except the abduction of 
Helen and the fall of Troy, since the gen- 
eral deluge. His nuptials were celebrated 
with great pomp and rejoicings at Aia- 



ALAMANCE. 



57 



Tnnnce, and indeed the whole community 
felt relieved at his marriage. As for Phil 
himself, satisfied that he had done what 
■was beyond the powers' of any other mor- 
tal man. he shed his buffoon character, 
strode about with a consequential air, and 
became a man 'of settled visage and de- 
liberate speech.,' His thrice happy bride 
seemed to pily (lie bachelor condition of 
the judge and myself, rallied us with play- 
ful spite on our' inability to get us wives, 
and exhorted us to keep trying, as no doubt 
we might yet find some one who would 
have us. Thus have 1 followed the for- 
tunes of Philemon Blister and Miss Arte- 
mesia Thrillingpipes to the beginning of 
their matrimonial career, and here 1 take 
leave of them forever. It is usual, in 
novels, tales, and histories, to conduct the 
characters to their exit Irom the world, 
and there bid them adieu. I have done 
more than this towards Phil and his wife ; 
I have recorded their lives up to what is 
called in law the civil death of the female, 
and have dared to go still farther, and see 
them each landed in what proved to be the 
worst of purgatories to both, the society 
of each other." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE EXHIBITION. 

Most of the incidents recorded in the 
last few chapters occurred within a short 
space of lime. They happened without 
impeding the regular course of things at 
Alamance, where the master still busied- 
himself with the affairs of his little king- 
dom, and where the judge and his school- 
mates still prosecuted their studies. In 
fact, the end of the session was near at 
hand, and as it approached, the exhibition 
became the absorbing topic of conversa- 
tion with old and young. It was similar 
to our modern commencements, being a 
grand gala day, when there were public ex- 
ercises by the students, and which were wit- 
nessed by the parents of the scholars, and 
all others who took an interest in the cause 
of education. Great preparations were, of 
course, made, and for wee'ks previous the 
boys daily rehearsed before the master, and 
in the presence of each other, speeches, 
plays, and dialogues; the grounds around 
the school-house were cleanly swept, and 
decorated by the girls wiih the nicest care, 
and workmen were engaged in preparing 
seats. All, from the master down to the 
smallest scholar, got new suits of clothes 
for this occasion, which many regarded as 
the most important era in their lives. 

The day, the eventful day, so anxiously 
expected, come at last. It was in the 
month of April, just after the vacant throne 
of Winter had been occupied by her more 
gentle sister, Spring, whose advent was 



merrily hailed by her unnumbered choirs 
of gay and feathered minstrels, and whose 
smile awoke a fresh bloom on the wan 
and faded cheek of Nature, now crowned 
with buds and blossoms, and shining in the 
green robes of her early youth. At an 
early hour the seats were rilled by the la- 
dies; and the boys, awkwardly wearing 
their fine new clothes, were shivering in 
the house, looking wistfully at the gather- 
ing crowd, and feeling like culprits who 
were that day to be led out to execution. 
All the patrons of the school, and all their 
relations — all Alamance, with a sprinkling 
of gallants from distant parts, were there. 
We said all Alamance, but we should have 
excepted the Glutsons and George War- 
den and his wife, the latter two of whom 
were .absent because their son was to be 
one of the speakers. At ten o'clock in the 
morning the curtain rose, and Corny Demi- 
john, marshal for the day, and arrayed in 
a suit of faded uniform, stepped out upon 
the stage. On his head sat a fierce three- 
cornered cap, a huge red sash -glittered 
round his waist, and his coat being button- 
ed to the chin, its long and slender skirts 
stood widely and stiffly apart, as if too 
proud to touch each other. Next after 
Marshal Corny came two negro fiddlers, 
then the students, ranged two abreast, and, 
lastly, the clowns or fools in masks and 
comic dresses, and acting as lieutenants. 
Uncle Corny, conscious that every eye 
was bent on him, with his gaze fixed 
sternly on a point in the distant horizon, 
his head thrown back, and the point of his 
sword resting on his shoulder, strode off 
with the step of an ancient Titan; the fid- 
dlers, feeling as Uncle Corny did, scraped 
away as if they were performing the grand 
finale of all mortal fiddling ; the clowns, 
believing they were the objects of general • 
attraction, acted accordingly, and each 
student, thinking that he himself fixed ev- 
ery gaze, felt his heart throb within him, 
and envied the courage and coolness of 
fiddlers and commanders. In this way the 
column marched off to the spring, and per- 
forming a circuit, wheeled, and started to 
the hotise. The military pride of the com- 
mander-in-chief, low getting the mastery 
over his judgment, and forgetting every 
thing else except the happy opportunity of 
displaying his skill, he undertook to carry 
his men through certain difficult evolutions. 
Of course his soldiers were raw at the 
business, and hence, by the assistance of 
his frisky lieutenants, who perverted all 
the commands, he had some wheeling to 
the right and some to the left, some fa- 
cing north and some facing south, some 
whirling round and some deploying into 
squads, till the whole were brought to a 
dead halt in a confused and solid mass. 
" Forward, by one, inarch !" cried Marshal 
Corny, in a fury of passion. "To the 



58 



ALAMANC E. 



right, by platoons, wheel; rear fronting 
flank, and flank crosswise !" shouted one 
lieutenant; "Front ranks face backwards, 
and centre wheel towards Sunday !" shout- 
ed the other. Thus they had it, all three 
of the commanders talking at once ; the 
fiddlers playing different tunes, and the 
boys running against and falling over each 
other, till Uncle Corny, overcome by rage, 
applied his foot so fiercely to his lieuten- 
ants, that they gave a respectful attention 
to his commands. He thus finally got his 
men into a line, made them fire several 
rounds with their horsemen's pistols, and 
got them all safely back into the house 
without any other accident except one 
which befel himself. As he strode up the 
steps of the stage, one of the clowns tripped 
his legs from under him, and sent him with 
an accelerated velocity into the lap of a 
fat widow who sat near. She, in her turn, 
went over, seizing, as she went, the lame 
leg of an old gentleman, and sending him 
some distance forward, his spectacled face 
striking furiously against the bare head of 
a screaming urchin. 

Thus they tumbled, one upon another, 
the crowd in great excitement rushing to- 
wards them, some shouting " fire," and 
some crying " murder," and many of them 
falling over those already down, until Un- 
cle Corny and the widow formed the base 
of a circular pyramid of prostrate bodies, 
and were nearly suffocated in each other's 
embraces. It was well for the clown that 
the widow was one of those chiefly affect- 
ed by his trick, for her influence only could 
restrain Demijohn from running his sword 
through the body of the author of the ac- 
cident. Order was at last restored, and at 
the sound of a bell the curtain again rose, 
when a white-haired boy, with his shirt- 
• collar sawing his ears, his eyes starting 
from their sockets, and fingers twitching 
nervously at his pantaloons, advanced a 
few paces, and halting, dipped his head for- 
wards as if he would pitch it at the audi- 
ence. Everybody knows how boys speak 
"in public on the stage," and the Alamance 
boys were not an exception to the general 
rule! 

After the eloquent efforts of two or three 
of the smaller scholars, and after the play- 
ing of two or three animated tunes by the 
fiddlers, the rising of the curtain disclosed 
Ben Rust, who, with a series of low bows 
to those in front and at his sides, advan- 
ced to the edge of the stage. Here he halt- 
ed, made another profound and oriental 
salaam, and smiling on the crowd general- 
ly, and winking specially at two or three 
of his friends, the loud tones of his stento- 
rian voice suddenly burst on the astonished 
audience like a clap of thunder, and Ben 
was soon some distance in the oration of 
Cicero against Verres. He stood with his 
arms hanging at his sides, his mouth 



stretched to its widest limit, and his voice 
at its very highest pitch, paying no at- 
tention to stops and periods, and often 
halting in the middle of a sentence. At 
these occasional pauses, made at regular 
intervals, and without reference to the 
sense of his speech, he would violently 
flourish his arms through the air at imagi- 
nary foes before and around him, by way 
of performing, at these intervals, the ne- 
cessary amount of gesticulation for that 
part of his oration last gone over. Now 
it happened that one of Rust's friends was 
perched upon a tree near by, and this wor- 
thy, being carried away by the stormy 
eloquence of his crony, forgot himself*, 
and in his excitement shouting " whoorah 
for Ben !" the limb on which he sat broke, 
and he came with a crash to the ground, 
finishing the sentence as he fell. Ben's . 
attention was arrested by the scene, and 
his ideas began to swim into each other. 
At a loss for words, he changed his posi- 
tion, bowed, and gesticulated. Still, not 
being able to remember where he had left 
off, he again bowed, boxed furiously at a 
circle of ideal antagonists, and took a new 
position. The master, whose prompting 
from within Rust could not hear, now 
started on the stage ; but Ben waved him 
back with his hand, and on a new key 
commenced a new discourse, reciting, 
without pause, emphasis, or varied tone, 

" The starry firmament on high." 

" And now, my Christin friends and feller 
sinners," said he, " my spoutin's over for 
the day. Our old friend Proximus made 
us all git two speeches, one for the mornin 
and one for-the evenin, but I thought while 
my hand was in I mout as well make a 
lumpin job of the whole consarn, and, as 
the sayin is, kill two birds with one stone. - 
I never was good at the oratories no how, 
and when you put me on a discourse of an 
old heathen Greek or Tartar I'm sure to . 
make a mess of it ; but if any body will 
jist give me a speech on liberty I guess I'd 
shew you how to make the fur fly some. 
Thank you for your attention." 

Notwithstanding the admirable grace 
with which Ben thus redeemed his failure, 
the master was greatly mortified, and de- 
termined to play his best card next. Henry 
Warden, by his assistance, had composed 
an original address on the wrongs of the 
American Colonies, and this, according 
to the first design, was to conclude the 
exercises of the day. M'Bride, however, 
altered the arrangement, and ordered the 
music to strike up and the curtain to be 
let down, and when it rose again, the judge, 
pale and agitated, came forward. After 
pausing a few moments to master his 
emotion, he commenced with a low and 
tremulous voice, which could be heard only 
by those on the front seats. Gathering 



ALAMANCE. 



59 



confidence as he advanced, his manner be- 
came more easy, natural, and bold, his 
voice swelled louder, firmer, and richer, 
and his eye flashed with contagious ani- 
mation. He was soon master of himself 
and of the hearts of all his excited and 
delighted auditors, when suddenly, and in 
the midst of the crowd, a voice exclaimed, 
"stop the traitor!" It was a single and 
an unknown voice, but it struck solemnly 
on every ear, and instantly there was a 
profound and painful silence. The cry of 
treason was even then a fearful sound, and 
the assembly sat in hushed and breathless 
expectation, each one gazing anxiously and 
enquiringly at his neighbour. As the judge 
looked round for the author of the alarm, 
his gaze met that of Edith Mayfield. Her 
cheeks were tinged with a hectic glow, 
her large, deep, dark eyes beamed with 
unearthly dight, and her whole face was 
lit up with the fervid feelings and unutter- 
able thoughts that were burning in her 
heaving breast. Slowly, earnestly, and 
solemnly the young orator resumed his 
speech, steadily watching the impression 
made on his hearers, and strongly empha- 
sizing every bold and startling passage. 
"As for me," said he in conclusion, "my 
first and fiercest hatred was for the tyrant, 
my first impressions of history were caught 
from the simple yet glowing page that re- 
cords his atrocities, my first, most ardent, 
and most, lasting love was the love of 
liberty — liberty of conscience, liberty of 
speech, and liberty of action. And by the 
favor of Heaven, though all other blessings 
be denied me — though fortune prove false 
and friends forsake me, and envy, malice, 
and detraction pursue and dog me — yea, 
even though death itself, in all its horrors, 
frown before me, while I tread this green 
earth I shall walk it with the erect soul of a 
freeman, living as I was born and dying as 
I have lived, unfettered by any chains that 
man can forge, and owning no master but 
God my maker !" A few moments after 
he had finished, and while he was yet on 
the stage blushing at the buzz of approba- 
tion that ran through the crowd, and the 
encomiums of the master, who held him 
by the hand, "Arrest him in the king's 
name !" startled every one, and Ross, with 
William Glutson and a few others were 
seen ascending the stage. " To the res- 
cue ! to the rescue !" shouted Uncle Corny, 
brandishing his sword in his hand, and 
trampling over the crowd that stood in his 
way. " To the rescue !" echoed and re- 
echoed others, and immediately the stage 
was covered with men, and the royalist 
party flung headlong from it. They fell 
among an infuriated multitude, and amid 
the shrieks and screams of women were 
heard the stern threats for vengeance and 
calls for blood, and loud and defiant shouts 
for Congress and for George the Third. 



Oaths were mingled with entreaties and 
expostulations, dirks were drawn, pistols 
fired, and rocks went whizzing through 
the air, till at length the authority of the 
more moderate ones prevailed and peace 
was restored. The royalists, smothering 
their resentment and covered with blood 
and dust, drew moodily off, and while they 
were yet in sight, Ben Rust, Avho was fran- 
tic with pleasurable excitement, bounced 
upon the stage and called for three cheers 
for Henry Warden and Liberty. Three wild 
cheers rang through those old woods, and 
hats, caps, and it is even said bonnets flew 
thick through the air, not a few of them 
falling and lodging on the roof of the house. 
Three cheers for Uncle Corny were called 
for and given ; three for the master, and 
three for the parson, whereupon this last, 
carried away by his enthusiasm, rushed 
upon the platform, and waving his hand- 
kerchief above his head, called out, " And 
now my hearties, three times three glori- 
ous, cheers for liberty and independence !" 
Loud, wild, and hearty were those cheers 
indeed, but they were fearful sounds to 
some in that assembly. Among these was 
Isaiah Mayfield, whose heart quaked at 
every shout, and who, that he might not 
be compromised by the proceedings of the 
now stormy multitude, hastily prepared 
to leave. After searching long for his 
daughter, he found her at last in a remote 
part of the crowd, and in the act of re- 
ceiving a slip of paper from Henry War- 
den. " Daughter, daughter !" exclaimed 
the old man, mad with alarm ; and Edith 
dropped the paper from her trembling fin- 
gers, while the tears glistened in her eyes 
as she gave one last, sad look to the judge, 
and took her father's arm. Henry would 
have explained, but the cautious and dis- 
creet Mayfield never could endure an ex- 
planation, always clinging with the tena- 
city of death to his first opinions and im- 
pressions, while his suspicions, however 
aroused, still grew darker and darker. As 
he went off, almost dragging his weeping 
daughter, there was some disposition to 
hiss him ; but the master was now on the 
stage and called for silence. " Let them 
go in peace," said he, "let them go who 
have no stomach for the fight. As we are 
about to take a great step and assume a 
mighty responsibility, I will say to you 
all, my friends, as the Lord said to Gideon 
on Mount Gilead, ' whoever is fearful and 
afraid let him return and depart early,' for 
we want no timid souls among our host. 
My friends, 'Othello's occupation's gone,' 
the schoolmaster's vocation is over for 
the present, and God knows when it will 
be resumed. It is said that inter anna 
silent leges, and I may say the same of 
letters, for I cannot teach while ' grim- 
visaged war' still shows his ' wrinkled 
front.' Yes, my friends and countrymen. 



60 



ALAMANCE. 



the terrible blast of war has sounded 
through our peaceful borders ; a struggle 
has commenced, and it must end in our 
slavery or in our glorious emancipation. 
I, for one, have no fears ; I, for one, be- 
lieve that the Great Ruler of nations is 
now about to effect one of his grandest 
purposes. The magnus ordo sceclorum is 
about to begin: a new era is dawning; 
man is about to be redeemed frfltai bond- 
age. I cannot sit idle while this struggle 
is going on ; 1 must exchange the rod for 
the sword, and act my part. And you, my 
beloved scholars, you, my respected pa- 
trons, neighbours, and countrymen, where 
will you be ? Oh ! will you go with me ? 
Will you join, with one heart and one hand, 
in this glorious work V A loud shout, of, 
"We will! we will to the dealh!" answered 
this question. " Then," continued the mas- 
ter, " let us record our vow, let us all sign 
this solemn pledge, which I will read : 
'We whose names are hereto affixed, ac- 
tuated by love for our common country, 
and an unconquerable attachment to liber- 
ty, do hereby pledge ourselves to devote 
our time, our property, and our lives to 
the redemption of that country from British 
oppression, and to the establishment of 
that liberty on secure foundations.' When 
the contest is over, and 
* Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, 
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,' 

the roll of names attached to this scroll 
shall be called again. Those who have 
fallen in the strife shall be embalmed for 
ever in the grateful memories of freemen ; 
those who have deserted the cause shall 
be marked for everlasting execration. My 
name is already to the paper; come up, 
all you that wish to follow my example.'' 
There was immediately a tremendous 
rush to obey this summons, and soon sev- 
eral sheets of paper were covered with 
names. As this remarkable document was 
preserved by the master, and is now in 
possession of the editor, and as it cannot 
be inspected by all the curious, we will 
mention some interesting particulars in 
regard to it. The name of David Cald- 
well stands second on the list. There are 
a great number of female signatures ; and 
there are some which appear to have been 
afterwards affixed. All ages are here rep- 
resented ; for you can. see the tremulous 
hand of the octogenarian, and the rough 
and angular autograph of the school-boy. 
We observe the Demijohn is spelled with 
two m\<t, and the name of Ben Rust is writ- 
ten in capital letters, each one of which 
leans off in a different direction from its 
neighbour. The only other thing worthy 
of mention is the following signature at 
the bottom of one of the lists, 
bis 
" Warden's -f- Ben, witness Ben Rust." 

mark 



The signing of this paper anri a fervent 
prayer from the Rev. Dr. Caldwell ended 
the ceremonies of the day. The people 
were not in a humour to hear other 
speeches and dialogues; the master and 
his scholars were absorbed with a new 
train of thoughts, and so all quietly dis- 
persed, soberly discussing among them- 
selves the incidents of the day. The judge 
had, to a great extent, regained his repu- 
tation, and, occupied with serious prepara- 
tions for another mode of life, he forgot, 
hi a measure, his recent grief, and busily 
prepared for the grave theatre of action 
on which he was about to enter. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



A few years made a great change in the 
appearance of things at Alamance. When 
we last closed our narrative, a cloud hung 
in the political skies; before the time at 
which we resume this history the storm 
had burst, and war, with its grandeur and 
its horrors, had been raging in every part 
of the country. The schoolmaster's vo- 
cation was indeed gone, and so was that 
of every other teacher of the arts of peace ; 
for the Genius of Destruction was now at 
work, laying in ruins the labour of many 
years, that mankind might take a new 
start where they had begun a century be- 
fore. There must be wars ; such is the 
doom of the world ; for the course of things 
here is, like the stone of Sisyphus, ever 
aiming at, but never reaching a certain 
end — a downward progress, invariably be- 
ginning just before the desired elevation is 
attained. 

The earth looked worn and wasted ; so- 
cial intercouse and social harmony were 
destroyed ; all improvements, moral, art- 
istical, and agricultural, were arrested, and 
for the cheerful sounds of thrifty industry 
were now heard the tramp of marching 
troops, the hoarse rattle of the drum, and 
the ear-piercing fife. Every place was 
drained of its resources, every family was 
mourning the loss of some valued mem- 
ber, and all the evils attendant on a pro- 
tracted contest of arms, unbridled licen- 
tiousness, depraved morals, drunkenness, 
famine, and pestilence, were let loose on 
the land. Many still adhering to the royal 
cause, the controversy assumed the cruel 
and murderous character of a civil war, 
and women and children were not exempt- 
ed from its injuries. This was more par- 
ticularly the case in North Carolina, where 
a large body of citizens still remained 
faithful in their allegiance to the English 
crown. The southern part of the State 
had been settled by families from the High- 
lands of Scotland, whence they had emi- 
grated in consequence of the odium into 



ALAMANCE. 



CI 



which they had grown with the reigning 
family, on account of their former attach- 
ment to (lie Stuarts. To avoid vexatious 
exactions and persecutions from the royal 
governor of North Carolina, and to display 
their loyalty to the now firmly-established 
Guelphs, they early espoused the side of 
England in her disputes with her colonies, 
and served George the Third with zeal and 
fidelity. These were honourable and hon- 
est men, and brave soldiers; and, devoted 
to their cause, ihey sometimes encouraged 
and protected another class of royalists 
who were scattered over the state, and 
whom they doubtless believed to be true 
'. subjects, but between whom and them- 
i selves there was, in fact, the" same differ- 
ence that there is between the pirate and 
! the sailor who fights under the flag of his 
.country. This other class, the regular 
I Tories, were lawless marauders, who made 
use of the occasion to gratify their thieving 
and malicious propensities. They were, 
in fact, robbers and assassins, more detest- 
i able than any race of men of whom Time's 
records speak. The Moss troopers of 
Germany, and the banditti of Italy and 
of Spain, and even the Leperos and Ran- 
cheros of modern Mexico, rarely joined 
the external enemies of their countries, 
and therefore are not to be compared to 
the American Tories, for whom was re- 
served the, unenviable distinction of com- 
bining pillage and patricide, theft and mur- 
der, without the palliation of necessity or 
the decent pretext of patriotism. They 
lurked in every part of i he. state; and, in 
those, neighbourhoods which were unpro- 
tected by organized forces, they would 
swoop down w+th fire and sword, carrying 
off and burning the property of patriot 
families, and sparing neither age nor sex 
in the gratification of their base lusts and 
sanguinary passions. 



CHAPTKR XX. 

THE IIKROINKS (IF AI.AMAJfCE. 

At the time alluded to in the last chap- 
ter, the Tories were a terror at Alamance. 
Many of the Whigs were absent in the 
service of their country, and their murder- 
ous enemies overran the neighbourhood, 
beating women, burnii g barns, robbing 
bouses, and carrying off cattle and slaves. 
Such, for a considerable period, was the 
state of things ; the few remaining Whigs, 
consisting of old men and invalids, having 
been driven from their homes and families, 
and compelled to hide in swamps and thick- 
ets, where they subsisted chiefly on fruits 
and berries. To add to the horrors of 
the times, a malignant and fatal epidemic 
' broke out in the community, and scourged 
nearly every family. The Rev. Dr. (^Id- 
well, the regular physician, was hunted 
from place to place with untiring ferocity; 



medicines were scarce, and even the com- 
mon comforts necessary for the sick were 
wanting. It was a time that tried the 
souls of men, and of women, too; and 
these latter, as, well as the former, were 
found equal to the occasion. With a pure 
and heroic devotion to a forlorn but noble 
cause, the females of Alamance shone 
with a brighter and serener lustre than 
ever did the savage Spartan mothers, or 
the haughty dames and military damsels 
of feudal times. They formed an associa- 
tion for their mutual protection; laboured 
day and night in the manufacture of cloth- 
ing for the soldiers; and braved the ter- 
rors of the pestilence and the dangers of 
darkness and the elements, to tend and 
nurse the sick, and to carry food to their 
exiled friends, husbands, and brothers. 
From the smallest girl to the most aged 
matron, all were taught to consider them- 
selves and all they had as belonging to 
their country, of whose cause they never 
despaired, and whose defenders they en- 
couraged to persevere in their glorious un- 
dertaking. The master's notes are full of 
instances of individual heroism, virtue, and 
devotion ; but, as these incidents would fill 
a volume, we will but briefly notice a few 
of the most prominent and active charac- 
ters, who are more worthy of notice only 
because they were more generally known 
than others. 

Esther Bell, whose husband and whose 
sons were in the service, was a woman of 
a strong mind and a masculine character — 
active, brave, and untiring. Her husband 
was rich; and all his negro men being 
good W r higs, and trained by Big Dan, one 
of their number, to the use of arms, they 
protected their mistress, and formed an ef- 
ficient guard to the plantation. Esther 
Bell herself, more commonly known as- 
Dr. Bell, was somewhat skilled in med- 
icines, and, with pistols at her saddle-bow, 
rode day and night, visiting and prescrib- 
ing for the sick. Polly Rust, the mother 
of Ben, was called, by the Tories, Major 
Poll, and, with a rifle on her shoulder and 
a dirk and pistols at her girdle, patrolled 
the neighbourhood. She was a plain, stout 
woman, perfectly fearless, and was consid- 
ered as the military chief of the commu- 
nity, every part of which felt her protec- 
tion. Mother Demijohn, like Polly Rust, 
was also a widow, and her only son Corny 
was generally absent in the war. She was 
very old, with a venerable appearance, and 
a head as white as cotton ; and yet, attend- 
ed only by a single female servant, she 
was constantly on the road. She was de- 
voutly pious, knew the whole Scriptures 
by heart, and well deserved her name of 
Parson. Better known and more gener- 
ally employed, and yet more lender than 
any of these, was Edith Mayfield, who- 
was now grown, and whose chaj-ms of 



62 



ALAMANCE. 



mind and person were wearing their rich- 
est bloom. Modest, diffident, and retiring 
in her disposition in peaceful times, and 
shrinking with painful timidity from the ad- 
miring gaze which her beauty won, she was 
brave, constant, and firm in the hour of 
trial, facing danger with a serene counte- 
nance and steady eye,, and lighting with 
her perpetual smile the gloom of those 
dark and troublous times. Her long-cher- 
ished aspirations were now realized ; for 
she now found herself usefully employed 
in one of those mighty and glorious causes 
that had often floated in misty grandeur 
before her young imagination, and which, 
from the very days of her childhood, had 
occupied her thoughts and dreams. It is 
not often that the good and pure and great 
in soul find in this world such work as they 
would like to be engaged in ; and therefore 
it is that they have recourse to fancy, and 
live in an ideal world, where they are ever 
carrying out the noble and grand purposes 
of their generous hearts. Thus it had been 
with Edith, and thus it was with Henry 
"Warden, than whom, in all her imaginary 
kingdoms, she could not find a more per- 
fect hero. His character was now proving 
to be precisely Avhat she thought it ; for 
in that great revolution going on — the 
greatest in her and his estimation of which 
this earth had ever been the theatre — he 
was acting a conspicuous part. Hers, 
which she well understood, was less noto- 
rious, but not less important ; and she en- 
tered on the discharge of her duties with 
cheerful enthusiasm and untiring zeal. 
Her throne was by the bed of the sick, 
and haggard disease lost half its terrors 
at her coming. To the young and to the 
aged, to the helpless and the suffering, she 
was a ministering spirit of good ; impart- 
ing peace to the souls of the dying, and 
irradiating with the mild beams of hope 
the hearts of the living. Fearless alike 
of the Tories and of " the pestilence that 
walketh in darkness and wasteth at noon- 
day," she was always on the wing, always 
present where most needed ; the well- 
known sound of her footsteps falling cheer- 
fully on the ears of the wretched, while 
pain and despondency fled before the light 
of her sweetly-beaming face as she crossed 
the threshold. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

WAR AT HOME. 

Little Wash, Mrs. Warden's youngest 
son, fell dangerously ill with the prevailing 
epidemic, and called daily for his brother, 
whom he had not lately seen. At his earn- 
est request Mrs. W. had written to Henry 
a letter, to'be carried by Ben ; and Esther 
Bell was sent for, that her skill might save 
the little patient's life, or prolong his days, 



until he could sde his father and brother. 
The good woman started in the night, and 
without an attendant, but had not gone 
far before the bridle of her horse was seiz- 
ed, while two ruffians dragged her to the 
ground and commenced beating her with 
clubs. She would soon have been horridly 
mangled, but for her presence of mind, 
which never deserted her. Looking up the 
road, she uttered a joyful exclamation, and 
called on Dan to hurry on with his men, as 
the Tories were now in his power. She- 
was instantly released, and, mounting her 
horse, she put him to his full speed, until 
she arrived at Wardens'. Here the Tories 
were also in force; for she had scarcely 
finished the narrative of her adventure 
when the house was violently entered by 
an armed party, some of whom, presenting 
their guns to the breast of Mrs. Warden, 
commanded her, on pain of instant death, 
to reveal the hiding-place of her husband. 

" He is hid in the strength of the Lord, 
and defies your power," answered Esther 
Bell for her neighbour. 

" Woman !" exclaimed the leader of the 
band, " tell us where that rebel, George 

Warden is, or by G , I'll blow you brains' 

out on the spot. Will you speak V 

" I will," replied Mrs. Warden ; " I will 
speak to you, though you are as deaf to- 
the calls of mercy as a famished wolf. 
You call my husband a rebel, and you de- 
sire to put him to death, because, as you 
allege, he has been guilty of treason to his 
royal master. Were his obligations to the 
English king as sacred and binding as. 
those of a wife to her husband 1 ? You may 
kill or torture me, but I will never betray 
him. Yet, for mercy's sake, do not mur- 
der me here ; carry me beyond the sight- 
and hearing of my poor child, who lies 
there at the point of death." 

Whatever may have been the wishes of 
the captain o*f the robbers, he was com- 
pelled to obey the wishes of his associates, 
and for the present ordered the ladies to be 
tied and carried into one of the kitchens. 
The little patient, Wash, who was lying 
on a pallet by the fire, feeble, sick, and 
helpless as he was, could not brook the 
indignities offered to his mother. For a 
moment his failing energies seemed to ral- 
ly, and nerve him with unnatural strength, 
and, rushing against the man who had 
seized his mother, he endeavoured to push 
him off. The Tory struck the young hero 
op the head, and he fell, clinging to his 
mother's clothes. As she stooped over 
him to gather him up, he put his arms 
about her neck and said, with a faint smile, 

" Give my love to brother Henry, and 
tell him farewell. All of you meet me 
in heaven. Now kiss me, mother." 

She put her lips to his ; but ere she with- 
drew them the seal of death was on his 
serene and manly face, and his heroic young 



ALAMANCE. 



63 



spirit no longer animated its frail tene- 
ment of clay. 

" Oh God ! oh merciful God, thy will be 
done !" exclaimed the agonized mother, as 
she pressed the lifeless form of her son to 
her bosom. 

The robbers, somewhat touched by the 
grief of the women, left them with the 
corpse, and commenced pillaging the house. 
One of the first rooms which they entered 
was the chamber of Kate, who, awakened 
by the noise, and hearing shrieks and cries 
in the adjoining room, where her brother 
was, and seeing strange and horrid-looking 
men in her own room, was "dreadfully 
frightened. She screamed and started 
from her bed, when several bayonets were 
placed against her throat, and she was or- 
dered to be still. The poor girl, half dead 
with fear, and believing her mother and 
brother had been murdered, lay trembling 
in bed, and saw all the valuables in the 
room destroyed or carried away. Every 
part of the house was ransacked ; doors 
were broken open, bureaus and sideboards 
smashed to pieces, the beds ripped open, 
chairs, tables, and bed-clothes flung into 
the yard ; and money, papers, dresses, and 
every portable article of value carried off. 
While these outrages were being commit- 
ted in the house, a singular incident oc- 
curred in the yard. The kitchen doors had 
been cautiously fastened, and a sentinel 
left at each to prevent any of the servants 
from escaping to alarm the neighbourhood, 
or from making resistance to the plunder- 
ing of the house. Old Ben, whose wits 
had been much exercised of late, awoke 
while these preparations were going on, 
and heard the conversation of the Tories. 
Raising a plank from the floor of his cabin, 
he cautiously crept out under the house, 
and was stealing off with stealthy pace, 
when he was heard and discovered. 

" Shoot the d — d scoundrel !" shouted 
one of the company ; but as soon as the 
word was given Ben shed his single. gar- 
ment and disappeared in the darkness. His 
shirt was instantly riddled with balls, but 
the owner had escaped. Having glutted 
themselves with plunder, the banditti with- 
drew, and took the road to Glutson's,upon 
which they came to a small fire, around 
which several of their comrades were seat- 
ed, Waiting for them. 

"Where is George Warden?" hastily 
demanded one of those by the fire — a man 
who, from his dress, seemed to be an officer 
and a gentleman. 

"Can't tell, captain," answered the lead- 
er of the robbing party ; " I know as little 
of his whereabouts as you do." 

" You found the whereabouts of the 
plunder, though," said the other, with a 
sneer; "and while youreyes were glued 
to that you could not have seen George 
Washington and the whole rebel army." 



" That may be so, captain," replied the 
robber, laughing ; " for when I see the yal- 
ler boys I'm charmed. Howsever, if I'd 
a-had my way I would have found George 
Warden, or sent his wife to wait and pray 
for his speedy arrival in kingdom come. 
But my men were women, and the women 
were she-devils." 

The British officer replied to this speech 
by remarking, as if talking to himself — 
" Not at home — he must have been there 
to-night. Men," continued he, in a louder 
tone, " listen to me, and see that you obey 
me. We will go to a place where you can 
sell or deposit your cursed plunder, and 
then I have other work for you to do. Let 
no man straggle off, or drink a drop of 
spirits, for you are to be engaged in a most 
important matter. You must ask me no 
questions, and do only as I bid you ; and 
remember ! it is in my power to reward 
you well, or have you hanged." 

In a neighbouring thicket there were 
watchful eyes marking these proceedings. 

" Good !" quietly observed a hidden spec- 
tator ; " now that we've got your secrets 
we'll use the privilege of presentin you 
with a little lead, accompanied with our 
respects, viva voce." 

The sharp crack of rifles rung keenly 
through the woods, and the chief of the 
robbers and another bounced from their 
feet, and fell dead in the road, and silence 
again reigned around. The astonished 
and terrified Tories dropped their plunder, 
and were about to disperse, when the offi- 
cer rallied them, and ordered them to ex- 
tinguish the fire. As they were scatter- 
ing the coals, a rifle was again heard, and 
a third man rolled lifeless on the earth. 

" That's proximus and the last," said 
one of the concealed enemy ; and, with the 
fleetness of deer, he and his companion 
plunged farther into the forest. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

A BURIAL AT ALAMANCE. 

On the next evening after the events 
related in the last chapter, there were 
mourners in the grave-yard of Alamance. 
Mrs. Warden, with a large concourse of 
her female neighbours and a few men, 
followed to that last resting-place the re- 
mains of her youngest son. Such scenes 
were so common that there w«s little 
weeping except by the sister and mother, 
the former of whom clung wildly to the 
coffin ; and the latter, unsustained by the 
presence of her husband, lost all control 
over her feelings, and was herself as help- 
less as a child. As the body was lowered 
into the pit, the venerable mother of Ala- 
mance approached to the head of the grave, 
and, raising her eyes upward, cried out, 
" ' In Rama there was a voice heard, lam- 



64 



ALAMANCE. 



entation and weeping, and great mourn- 
ing. Rachel weeping for her children, and 
wouULnot be comforted because they are 
not.' jf Yet, my friends, why do yon weep ? 
Is there not an appointed time to man 
upon earth < Are not his days also like 
the days of an hireling 1 Man that is born 
of a woman is of short continuance and 
full of trouble. He cometh forth like a 
flower and is cut down : he fleeth also as 
a shadow and continueth not. He is taken 
from the evil days to come ; his young 
spirit has returned to God who gave it, 
pure and holy as it was when it first ani- 
mated his little body. He has left us but 
for a season ; and father and mother, 
brother and sister, and friends shall meet 
him again beyond the shores of that stormy 
Jordan, which he has already passed. For 
I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that 
he shall stand at the latter day upon the 
earth. And though after my death worms 
destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall 1 
see God. Such is the hope of the right- 
eous, and may, our last end be like his! 
Let us pray." } It was a simple, solemn, 
and pathetic prayer, and her words fell on 
the heart of Mrs. Warden like the dews of 
heaven on the withered flower. Dust 
Was now committed to dust, and, when 
the burial was completed, Nathan Glutson, 
who had officiously assisted in the cere- 
monies of the occasion, rose devoutly to 
his feet, uncovered his head, and asked 
the company to remain until he could 
make some remarks. 

" My friends," said he, " the Good Book 
tells us that misfortunes never come sin- 
gle. We have just buried one sweet and 
promising youth, and it is my painful 
duty" — here he again wiped his eyes — " it 
is my sad duty to inform you that another 
sweet blossom of Alamance has been with- 
ered. There is a Providence that tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb — so says that 
great divine, Shakspeare, and it is our duty 
to submit. This, I hope, my esteemed 
friends, Isaiah Mayfield and his lady will 
do: their daughter is no more. She has 
gone, with little Wash, to heaven !" 

The announcement sounded like the 
crack of doom to the meek and pious Mrs. 
Mayfield, and her senses reeling for a mo- 
ment, she fainted away, and recovered 
only to faint again and again, till her 
friends began to fear for her life. Her 
husband seemed to be totally unconscious 
of her situation, and of everything around 
him, and gave strong indications of mental 
aberration. 

" Dead, is she 1" said the old man, " dead, 
dead, dead ! Well, that's strange ! Why 
don't every body die] Dead! what a silly 
joke, as if my beautiful and warm hearted 
child could lie down in the cold ground 
stud rot! Yes," continued he, somewhat 
recovering, " I thought it was all a dream. 



Mr. Glutson, I've had the vertigo, and as 
my brain turned I imagined that you spoke 
of my daughter's death : is it so ?'' 

" I am sorry to say it is so." answered 
Glutson ; and, after a hundred questions as 
to the cause, the manner, and time of her 
death, Nathan asked for silence, and re- 
lated the particulars. His own daughter 
Emily had been taken sick — was even con- 
sidered ao dangerously ill. Kmily, as they 
all knew, was a great favourite with Eddie 
— a sisterly affection existed between them. 
' ; When, therefore, my daughter was at- 
tacked, I went yesterday after Edith, as 
my friend'Mayfield will recollect." 

"Certainly i do," interposed the. old man, 
"I know you came after her. When will 
she return] Did you say your daughter 
was dead V 

" Not mine, my friend, but yours. Please 
do not interrupt me w for I am hardly able 
at best to tell the sorrowful st<>rv. 1 went 
after Edith, and she started with me home. 
The creeks, as you all know, were swollen 
with the late rains, and Edilh, you also 
know, was fearless and frolicksome. She 
was some distance ahead of me when she 
came to Little Alamance, merrily singicg 
and calling to me to hastea on. The foot- 
bridge, as you know, has no railing, and 
before she got halfway over it, her head 
began to reel, and she looked round to me 
and started to run back. I hurried towards 
her; but before I got near the creek she 
had fallen off and was washed down the 
stream. I ran down the creek, but saw 
her rise but once — but once — and alter that 
she disappeared entirely. I went several 
miles down the stream, but th^ only trace 
of her I found was this handkerchief, which 
had caught on a bush. My daughter — whom 
the news nearly killed — desired to keep the 
handkerchief as a relic of her dear friend ; 
but I thought I would first ask permission 
of Eddie's parents." 

" Give me the handkerchief," cried old 
Mayfield, 4i I'll strangle your daughter with 
it! A pretty story, indeed, that my Eddie 
is drowned — that water can put out her 
bright eyes! She's just in fun— don't cry 
Mr. Glutson. Why, man, you're silly ! I 
know Eddie's pranks well, and, may be, I 
won't give her a round lecture for scaring 
us so. I know the place well. I know- 
where she's hid, the little baggage ; and 
then, when I go to scold her, she'll bounce 
into my lap, throw her arms round my 
neck, and kiss me so sweetly that 1 can*!; 
say a word .... Drowned, did you say ? 
Who's drowned'? let's go and drag the 
creek." 

The creek was dragged next day by 
some of the neighbours, and the body, not 
of Edith, but of Isaiah Mayfield. was found. 
The old man, as it appeared on subseqUfcaH 
enquiry, had left home but a short lime 
before his dead body was found, and had, 



ALAMANCE. 



65 



doubtless, thrown himself into the water 
where he supposed his daughter to be. 

The story of Edith's fate spread far and 
wide, and even in those glQomy times ex- 
cited a new and universal sorrow. All 
now recollected her be.auty and her vir- 
tues, and all remembered that they had 
predicted her early death because she was 
' too good for earth. They looked on her 
as a transient visiter from above, sent here 
for a special purpose — as a celestial flower 
that blossomed for a moment on the tree 
of life, to give the world a glimpse of the 
original purity and brightness of our now 
fallen and corrupted nature. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

WAR — ON THE EMBATTLED FIELD. 

The history of the battle of Camden is 
too well known to require a description 
from us. It occurred about the time of the 
events related in the last few chapters ; and 
while it reflects shame on some, it covered 
with glory many of those engaged on the 
American side. The Virginia and the 
North Carolina militia, as is well known, 
fled early in the engagement ; and while 
General Gates, the commander-in-chief, 
was endeavouring to rally them, the ven- 
erable De Kalb, at the head of the conti- 
nentals, was left without orders and nearly 
surrounded by overwhelming numbers. 
These, the continentals, preferring death 
to retreat, stood their ground against fear- 
ful odds, and maintained the fierce conflict 
until the fall of their gallant leader, and 
until every corps was broken. We ex- 
tract the following account of part of the 
engagement from the journal of M'Bride : 
"When the militia fled, our captain (Cor- 
nelius Demijohn) made a desperate but 
vam effort to rally his company, threaten- 
ing all sorts of punishments, and promising 
the most extravagant rewards. He got 
himself well-nigh out of breath with swear- 
ing and with running to and fro ; and a*fter 
all his ado, he was able only to retain those 
of us who were from Alamance, and who 
numbered eight, including the captain. 
Our commander, who was sweating and 
■ panting prodigiously, from his efforts, now 
drew out the little bottle which, he always 
carried about him, and offered us a drink. 
A few of "the men helped themselves to a 
small draught, after which our captain took 
a long and affectionate embrace, and, with 
a thundering shout, led us into the middle 
of the fight. It seemed to me that all en- 
gaged looked upon their own fate, and that 
of the Anierican cause, as sealed, and so 
they were determined to sell their lives as 
dear as possible, and to build a monument 
-of dead Englishmen over their own graves. 
Bidding adieu to time and its vanities, we 
set ourselves to work with the stern cour- 
E 



age of desperation ; and I saw many refus- 
ing to surrender or ask for quarter after 
they had fallen, covered with wounds, but 
on their knees and on their backs still 
fought as long as they could raise an arm. 
Several times I was covered with brains, 
scattered from the heads of those near by 
me, and the ground became so slippery 
with blood we could hardly keep our feet. 
I trod upon the shattered skulls of friends 
and foes, and several times stumbled and 
fell over heaps of gory and mangled bodies. 
Sometimes I saw an arm taken off, or a 
leg shivered, and heard the poor creature 
scream with pain, but none attended to his 
calls; and often, when our. nearest and 
best friends would fall, and plead for help 
in the name of ancient friendship, we wbuld 
have to leave them to their fate, not even 
having time to cool their parched lips with 
water. Never shall I forget that horrid 
comminglement of sounds, where, amid 
the perpetual roll of firearms and the din 
and clash of swords, were heard oaths and 
prayers, screams, groans, and pitiful en- 
treaties — some cursing their Maker, and 
some uttering, with feeble voices, the 
names of their mothers, wives, and chil- 
dren ! At length our noble leader, the 
Baron de Kalb, fell, with a crash like a 
mighty oak beneath the repeated strokes 
of his adversaries ; and, being scattered 
about, the field, the Americans sought safe- 
ty, every man for himself. Our captain 
and myself had kept our eyes on Major 
Warden, who was ever in the thickest of 
the fight, and who was by the side of his 
gallant general when the latter fell. Never 
did 1 see, in one so young, such cool cour- 
age, such a knightly bearing. Early in the 
action he threw the scabbard of his sword 
away, and several times he sought out and 
was engaged, hand to hand, with British 
officers, more than one of whom he van- 
quished. When the old baron fell, young 
Warden rushed among the foe, who form- 
ed a ring around him, and were giving him 
wound after wound, he still refusing to 
surrender. It was a critical period with 
our young friend ; and Captain Demijohn, 
blowing like a chafed rhinoceros, and 
glowing like a ball of fire, rushed in with 
his Alamancers, who, hewing their way 
through the serried ranks of the adversary, 
caught the major as he was falling, and 
carried him safely beyond the reach of 
danger." 

When the Alamancers, as M'Bride re- 
lates, carried- Warden off the field, they 
found him to be in a state of insensibility, 
from exhaustion and the loss of blood. No 
time, however, was to be lost, and after 
stanching his wounds, they hastily con- 
structed a hand-litter, and, placing him in 
it, fled as rapidly as they could till dark- 
ness overtook them. They were now a- 
the house of a poor widow woman, friend- 



66 



ALAMANCE. 



ly to the cause, and who joyfully relieved 
all their wants. Henry Warden was placed 
on the best bed in the house, and, falling 
into a refreshing sleep, he remained uncon- 
scious until near the break of day.' He 
awoke at last much bewildered, and for a 
moment imagined that he was in his tent 
in the army. »At length, recollecting the 
scenes of the preceding day, and being un- 
able to account for his present position, he 
called out to know if any one was near him. 

" Certainly, ujajor, certainly," answered 
a hoarse voice ; " I'm here, and other good 
friends besides." 

" And who are you ?" enquired Warden ; 
" I cannot see you ; but it seems to me I 
ought to know your voice." 

" See me ! no, certainly, you can't ; you 
could hardly see a candie this dark niglit, 
pr, what is brighter, the eyes of this fair 
lady. As to my voice, you ought to know 
it — to be sure you ought, if I had not 
spoiled the finest one in all the country in 
cursing George the Third, d n him !" 

"But who are you?" again asked War- 
den. 

"Demijohn, Cornelius Demijohn, captain 
af militia in " 

" Uncle Corny i" exclaimed Warden, en- 
deavouring to rise ; " am I dreaming, or is 
it really you 1 ? I thought I saw you yes- 
terday." 

" To be sure you did," said Demijohn, 
giving his hand to Warden — " to be sure 
you saw me — that is, I saw you ; but it was 
no time for friends to pass compliments, 
major." 

"It was not, indeed, Uncle Corny; but 
why do you call me major] Such cere- 
mony between old friends, who have been 
long parted, is foolish. Call me as you 
used to do, and sit down here, and tell me 
all about Alamance. When did you leave 
there 1 how is my father's family, and 
Hector M'Bride ? Tell me every thing that 
has occurred." 

" Not now, not now," answered the cap- 
tain ; " you must sleep — to be sure you 
must. This good lady thinks so, and I 
think so too. To-morrow morning I will 
— that is to say, Hector M'Bride will tell 
you every thing." 

"Is he here, the master here?" ex- 
claimed Warden, again trying to rise ; " is 
Hector M'Bride here ] Bring him to me 
this instant. Where is he] 1 must see 
him immediately — for all the opiates in 
the world could not make me sleep now. 
Bring him in, Uncle Corny !" 

" Well, well," said the latter, " you must. 
be obeyed ; you are my superior in rank — 
to be sure you are — and the rules of war 
give you command. Old Hector is asleep 
now," continued he, as he went out, "and 
dreaming that he's whipping a boy in the 
erhool of Alamance; but I'll wake him if I 
have to fire a ten-pounder over his head." 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

RETROSPECTIONS. 

Early in the morning the conversation 
of the master and his former scholar was 
interrupted by the entrance of the other 
Alamancers, led in by Captain Demijohn 
with military order and precision. The 
captain's men, however, broke ranks as 
soon as they saw their old friend and play- 
mate, whom they affectionately embraced. 
Warden and his friends gazed on each 
other with kind curiosity, and, though time 
had wrought its usual changes in the faces 
of all, each heart was as warm, as true, as 
generous, and as simple, as when they had 
played their last grand game of tow; 
Henry Warden, who had long been ia the 
service, and who had not for some time 
past had an opportunity of visiting home, 
related the chief particulars of his career as 
a soldier, with which dry details of marches 
and of battles we will not trouble the read- 
er. Suffice it to say that, in answer to their 
frequent questions, he alluded modestly to 
his own standing in the army among of- 
ficers and men ; told how and why-he had 
been promoted, and satisfied their curiosity 
by exhibiting high testimonials for probity, 
courage, and conduct from the first officers 
in the service of the United States. As to 
the previous adventures of the master and 
of Demijohn, it is our purpose to. say but 
little. The latter had enlisted for short pe- 
riods several times, while the former had 
served as a volunteer in various places, 
going wherever lie thought he could be 
most useful. When Gates marched ' i the 
South, Demijohn raised a company and 
received the commission of captain in the 
militia. He and his men had joined the 
main army just before the battle of Cam- 
d'fen, and Warden, who, till the engagement, 
had been detailed on duty in the surround- 
ing country, had not an opportunity o free- 
ing his friends till after the battle. Imme- 
diately after sunrise the party were again 
enj-oute, aiming for the mountains of North 
Carolina, the militia captain remaining 
some time with the widow to enquire mi- 
nutely about the roads. Her information 
must have been very confused and contra- 
dictory, for Corny was perpetually at a 
loss. That good knight had ever been of 
a grave and taciturn humour, while the 
martial air of his step, the erect posture 
of his head, and the upward and stiff pro- 
jection of his full red face caused by the 
immense breadth of his girdle, added much 
to the solemnity and dignity of his pres- 
ence. He spoke but seldom, and seldom 
laughed ; but, when he did give, way, no 
premonitory smile played along and re- 
laxed his features, which would suddenly 
convulse with cachinatory thunder and 
then as suddenly collapse into their stern 
rigidity. He w^ct now even more than 






LAMANCE. 



67 



tisually silent, breathed harder than com- 
mon, and listened to the conversation of 
his friends with a vacant stare. His situ- 
ation excited much speculation in the 
master, who was curious about such things, 
and who concluded that one of the arrows 
of the Little Archer had at length pierced 
through his seven fingers of lard and 
touched his heart. 

At night the Alamanccrs had the good 
•fortune of finding comfortable quarters at 
the house of a Whig, and M'JBride and 
Warden, being put in a room to themselves, 
had an opportunity of conversing on sub- 
jects in regard to which each was anxious 
to speak. . 

" Now," said Warden, " when they were 
alone, " tell me all about Edith Mayfield." 

" Ah, my friend," replied the master, " I 
gee the embers are yet burning — the veteris 
vestigia flammce still remain. 1 thought you 
had forgotten that unhappy passion."' 

Warden. — "I have tried, but I cannot. 
Indeed, when I forget that, I shall forget 
the happiest as well as the bitterest portion 
of my life. But, come, tell how Edith is. 
How does she look'? Who is courting 
her 1 Where is Ross ? What does she say 
of me ?" 

M'Bride. — "A genuine lover! forty ques- 
tions in a breath! Well, to make a long 
story short, Edith has grown to be a full, 
ripe woman, and is as beautiful as an angel. 
I have at times taught privately in her and 
your father's families, and I found that Ed- 
die and your sister \Kate were sworn sis- 
ters, always together. It is said that she 
is subject to fits of melancholy, but when 
I was with her she was always apparently, 
happy, siugJ£2Lhkj3_a nightingaleajjdlaugh- 
ing like. a siren. FcoTrltr" "never hear her 
speak muclt~oT*you, but she always- man- 
aged to know when your mother heard 
from the army, and would go over to get 
the news. As to Ross, he haunts still about 
Alamance, and is often at Glutson's, though 
secretly. He sees Edith frequently, I 
doubt not, and I am inclined to believe she 
has often refused him. What will be the 
end of it no one can tell ; for you may as 
well undertake to predict from what point 
the wind will blow this day sixty years 
hence as to cast the horoscope of a woman's 
mind for four-and-twenty hours. Glutson, 
by the way, is a villain, and I hope yet to 
see him hanged. He keeps smooth with 
the Whigs, but he is too much respected 
by the Tories. Strange stories are whis- 
pered about in regard to father and son; 
and if one half of them be true, the world 
never saw two more finished scoundrels." 

Warden. — " But as to Mayfield : what 
thinks he of me now 1" 

The Master. — " What does the owl think, 
as he sits perched on a tree, gazing with 
wisely-solemn looks upon the moon and 
stars] Nobody can divine old Mayfield's 



thoughts ; and if he knows them himself, 
I'm much mistaken. At ordinary times, 
and among ordinary people, he might be 
thought to be a man of profound policy ; 
but the breath of the storm agitates his 
mind so that a child can see the muddy 
bottom of that shallow stream he thought 
so deep. He is a miserable imbecile, the 
constant prey of his own fears, and per, 
petually seeking by stratagem to overcome 
the shadows of his own diseased imagina- 
tion. The Tories laugh at him and levy 
black mail from him ; the Whigs pity and 
despise him. He has got to be so timid, 
so wary, and so non-committal, that he 
will not give you a direct opinion on the 
weather, and instructs negroes about their 
daily work as if in the character of ambas- 
sador he was negotiating a treaty of peace 
between Great Britain and the United 
States. He speaks of you, of course ; he 
speaks respectfully, and even kindly, but 
what does he think'? You will be taxing 
your brain to a poor purpose to know. 
You ought patiently to await the course of 
things ; and if Edith ever loved you, and is 
worth having, you will get her yet. But 
you ought not to love her : discard that feel- 
ing from your heart." 

Warden. — " If you had said from my 
breast, then, with loss of life,, it had been 
possible ; as for my heart, it and Edith 
can never be divided. I will speak to you 
candidly and, I trust, with some show of 
reason. When I first listened to your ad- 
vice about love I was young, ardent, and 
inexperienced. 1 embraced with zeal the 
cause of my country ; patriotism was my 
mistress, and she I expected forever to 
absorb my soul. I was mistaken — you 
were mistaken. I love my country as 
much as any one can ; I am devoted to 
liberty, and have shown my attachment 
by more than words. Yet, in all employ- 
ments — on the long and painful march — in 
the duties of the camp — in the very rush 
of battle, and in the hour of victory and 
defeat, my thoughts were not fully occu- 
pied with what was around me : my mind 
would turn to Edith Mayfield. Selfishness 
is the great spring of action in us all, for 
we are all seeking our own happiness. 
The miser finds it in piling up heaps of 
gold ; the ambitious in the momentary ap- 
plause of the changeful multitude ; the 
vindictive in scenes of blood and wretch- 
edness, and the good and intellectual in 
the exercise of the affections. I long as 
much as you to see a republic established, 
and when it is established I wish to be a 
happy citizen under it, loving and being 
loved. You recollect what is said in 
Cicero de Amicitia." v 

The Master. — " I agree with you in your 
principles, but not in their application. We 
all seek happiness ; and cannot a refined 
nature find it in the cultivation of letters, 



ALAMANCE. 



the pursuits of philosophy, and in the con- 
sciousness of being a benefactor of his 
kind ■? I tell you that though we all seek 
happiness, some of us do not expect to 
find it here. There are martyrs to princi- 
ple—men who, from a sublime conception 
of their duties look, 

' Beyond this visible diurnal sphere' 

for the reward of their deeds, at leasi-be- 
yond the period of their own livesi What 
rewards temporal seek I? What rewards 
seeks Lafayette 1 What ones did that 
venerable leader seek, who yesterday of- 
fered himself a sacrifice for liberty ? Oh, 
how my heart swelled within me as I saw 
that noble and stalwart form towering in 
the thickest of the fight, and heard his 
clarion voice cheering on his followers to 
deeds that must live while valour has a 
name ! Even in the hottest of the strife I 
wept like a child as I saw him with his 
white hairs streaming in the wind, yield 
. at last to the blows that fell upon him like 
winter hail, and fall with his face to the 
foe ! There, on that ensanguined field, 
far from the home of his youth and the 
graves of his kindred — there, in the cause 
of strangers, and at the head of a forlorn 
hope, in a green old age, fell one who had 
dwelt in palaces, who was himself the mir- 
ror of knighthood, the flower of modern 
chivalry ! And was he not happy ! The 
consciousness that we are acting a noble 
part, even in tragedy, is the very ecstasy 
of happiness ; and that old hero, when he 
fell in his martial harness felt a proud 
swelling of his soul within him, and his 
fading eyes beamed with unearthly light. 
for he knew that he was performing, be- 
fore the world and before posterity, the 
last great act in a glorious drama, and that 
his memory would live fresh and green in 
the hearts of the brave and free forever! 
If you must love — if you must sympathize 
with kindred spirits — hold communion with 
the mighty ones of the past and present. 
Sympathize with them in their great, he- 
roic, and magnanimous thoughts ; walk 
with them over the flowery and seques- 
tered vales of poetry, or soar through the, 
boundless universe, and explore the arcana 
of nature, the causes of things. Do not 
waste your most precious thoughts on a 
creature whose highest ambition is to have 
the finest equipage, and who is more im- 
pressed by the colour of your coat, the 
curve of your leg, and the cut of your 
whiskers, than by the beauties of your 
mind and the wealth of your heart. Take 
notice, I do not charge Edith as being 
worse in this respect than others : she 
may not be as bad, though it is no recom- 
mendation that she is the daughter of one 
who is a Machiavel on trifles and a palterer 
and piddler on important matters. As to 
y-ur quotation from Cicero, that was in- 



tended to apply more to friendship than to> 
love, of which, in its purity, as I opine, the 
old Roman knew but little. Besides, it is 
met by one from a man equally greaw 
Lord Bacon says that ' great minus and 
great occasions do keep out this weak 
passion;' and farther, 'that love is "more 
beholden to the stage than to real life,' as 
in the former it appears both in tragedy" 
and comedy, while in the latter it acts 
only in tragedy. There is a volume in 
this sentence, and I commend it to your 
serious consideration." 

Warden. — " As you are in the mood for 
quotations, I will give you one from the 
highest of all authorities. ' It is not 
for man to be alone,' was said by the Cre- 
ator, who made him to love. It is a fixed 
law of our being, and we must obey it. 
Some there are — you may be one whose 
affections are blighted for wise purposes. 
In this way God prepares instruments to 
work out his ends ; and when I see i 
whose love has been turned to bitterness, 
I regard them as branded like Cain for 
some early sin, or as the high priests, the 
sanctified vessels of Deity, consecrated by 
him for some special use. But let us turn 
the subject, for, I love Edith so well, and 
you dislike the sex so much, something 
offensive may be said." 

" Agreed," said the master, " and to 
sharpen our wits as well as refresh our 
bodies, Ijnove we_take a^hoxt-exciusion 
to the land of Nod.*' ~ 



CHAPTER XXV. 

A " MOUNTAIN HOME" IN NORTH CAROLINA.. 

On the next morning, at early light, the 
Alamancers were again on the road, War- 
den, whose wounds were not dangerous, 
being now able to ride the horse brought 
on for his use. The others were on foot ; 
and Captain Demijohn, returning to a sense 
of his duties, enforced a rigorous discipline 
and manoeuvred his men over broken 
ground, , through cornfields and swamps, 
and eluded the foe, who were scouring 
the country, with consummate skill and 
ability. The march, however, though .!ls- 
playing great military capacity and emi- 
nent strategic power, will hardly justify 
the parallel which the master insinu; tes 
might be drawn between it and the. retreat 
of the immortal ten thousand from the 
plains of Cunaxa ; and though the re:, n 
of his memoirs might find a Xenophon in 
M'Bride, he would scarcely recognize a 
Clearchus or even a Proxenus in the bulky 
captain of militia. There is, nevertheless, 
some analogy between the feelings of the 
Greeks when the joyful cry of, " The seal 
the sea!" burst through their ranks and 
those of Uncle Corny's men, as they be- 
held the blue summits of the distant mount- 



ALAMANCE. 



€9 



ains. Our travellers were soon among 
them, and felt awed as they entered what 
seemed to be the mighty workshops of na- 
ture, where her terrible energies are most 
conspicuous, yet most noiseless. Night 
found them in these solitudes, still clamber- 
ing over mountains, and winding along de- 
files that led only against jutting rocks and 
overhanging precipices. Warden being 
yet too feeble to sleep in the sharp mount- 
ain air, the Alamancers continued to grope 
their way, some of them leading the horse 
of their wounded friend, and others acting 
as pioneers, running sometimes against a 
jutting rock, and then splashing in the 
water. Captain Demijohn, accompanied 
by his faithful lieutenant, Hector M'Bride, 
like all good officers, led the way; and 
the latter, remarking upon the mishaps of 
the two, declares that they concluded be- 
tween themselves they would be devoutly 
thankful if the morning found them with 
one whole rib a-piece. As for the master, 
his falls were not so dangerous, while 
those of Uncle Corny threatened destruc- 
tion to himself and all who w r ere in his 
path. On one occasion particularly, the 
captain, losing his foothold, went clown the 
side of a steep hill with a crash like that 
of a landslide or mountain avalanche, scat- 
tering rocks and pebbles, and crackling 
over brush and bushes, till.he landed in a 
creek. As he rolled along with an in- 
creasing velocity, starting as he went a 
huge mass of stones and logs, he was 
heard to ejaculate, with broken accents, 
" Gi-gi-g-i-v-e my lo-love to the wi-wid-id- 
id-0 Powell. Ugh!" His accident, which 
did not injure him seriously, turned out to 
be of great importance, for he could see 
far down the narrow gorge, in which was 
the faint glimmer of lights. He and his 
company, following the creek under jut- 
ting rocks and between steep mountains 
that seemed to have been split from each 
other by some convulsion of nature, emerg- 
ed at last into a broader valley, and came 
to a very neat but unostentatious dwell- 
ing. There were five or six negro cabins 
scattered about the yard, and, as far as'the 
travellers could judge in the dark, the ap- 
pearance of things indicated very comfort- 
able quarters. Demijohn, who observed 
all the rules of war, ordered M'Bride, 
with a white flag, to hold a conference 
with the commandant of the post; in other 
words, to approach the place in a pacific 
manner, and ascertain the disposition of 
the owner, and the state of things within. 
The master was met at the door by an old 
man, who enquired his business there at 
that ! ate hour of the night. 

""We are belated travellers," answered 
M'Bride, "and have with us a sick friend 
who cannot sleep in the open air. "We ask 
only a bed and shelter for the sick, prov- 
ender for his horse, and food for ourselves, 



for all of which we will pay you a fair 
equivalent. As to our politics," continued 
he, with his usual frankness, " we are 
Whigs ; but we'll disturb no one provided 
we are not. attacked ourselves." 

" Wounded, lost, and belated," said the 
old man, "is enough to say to me, al- 
though it is not my business to entertain 
strangers, and there is a tavern-house a 
few miles distant. You have a further 
claim on me in being Whigs, and my roof 
and board are at your service as long as 
you are desirous of staying. Where is your 
sick friend, and where are your horses V 

" The wounded officer and our only 
horse are at the gate, as are also the rest 
of the company." 

" Bring them all in, while I give some 
orders about the horse." 

The master reported what he saw and 
heard, and Demijohn, with fife playing, and 
colours flying (for he had preserved his 
company's colours), marched his men into 
the house and ordered them to stack their 
arms in a corner of the room. He then 
called his roll, and dismissed his men for 
the day, the whole proceeding annoying 
Warden no little, and exciting an immense 
sensation on the premises. The Alaman- 
cers, seated round a large fire in a small 
but tidy parlour, cast curious glances 
round the room, observing that the furni- 
ture, though not rich, indicated that they 
were in the abode of thrifty ease and in- 
telligence. There was a book-case filled 
with books and pamphlets, which attracted 
the attention of Warden and M'Bride, and 
they were particularly surprised to find a 
well-thumbed copy of " Paradise Lost" 
lying on the candle-stand, and appearing to 
have been recently, and hastily laid down. 
The eyes of Demijohn rested, with a cheer- 
ful and affectionate expression, on an old- 
fashioned sideboard, the top of which was 
well garnished with glasses and decanters, 
while his companions in arms listened, 
erectis auribus, to the creaking of smoke- 
house doors and the cackle of hens in 
trouble. They were thus occupied when 
their host entered and fixed the gaze of 
every eye. He was a tall, erect, and mus- 
cular man, with a dignified air and manner, 
a broad, high forehead, a mild, intelligent, 
and kindly eye, and a face expressive o) 
great serenity of temper and of a virtuou 
and benevolent heart. His head was a 
white as cotton, and, although he looke 
hale and hearty, it was evident that he ha 
touched the grand climacteric in the ag 
of man, the three-score years and ten. 
Such a host could not be long a stranger 
to such guests as his were, and, on mak- 
ing known his name, which was Abraham 
Neal, he was introduced by M'Bride to 
each of his friends, and informed of their 
business, their place of residence, and the 
rank and title of each. 



70 



ALAMANCE. 



" After supper," said Neal, " I will get 
you to relate the particulars of that unhap- 
py battle to my family. It was a sad blow 
to our cause, and I had heard rumours of 
it before — but, bless me ! I had nearly for- 
gotten the brandy. Here, Peggy, bring 
me the keys !" 

At these words there came bustling out 
from an adjoining room a little prim old 
lady, with a basket of keys on her arm, a 
very white cap on her head, and a very 
kind smile playing on her once handsome 
but diminutive features. 

" My wife," said Neal, and he made her 
acquainted with each of his guests. From 
the sideboard they adjourned to the supper- 
table, where Mrs. Neal presided, showing 
by her looks that she was entirely happy 
as long as her guests continued to eat. 
When the company were again seated 
by the parlour fire, there glided in by the 
side of Mrs. Neal another member of the 
family. 

" This is my daughter Lucy," said the 
old man, rising and making known to her 
the names of his new friends, on each of 
whom she shed a sunny smile. 

"These men, daughter," continued Neal, 
" are soldiers, good Whig soldiers, and you 
will now have an opportunity of hearing 
of battles from men who helped to fight 
them. Mr. M'Bride, you will please to tell 
us all about the battle of Camden, and re- 
member that we are country folk, and want 
to hear all the littie particulars, such as 
how the officers looked and acted, and what 
they said, and what you yourselves did, 
and how you felt, and how the battle be- 
gan, and how it ended." 

The master, in no way loath " to fight 
his battles o'er again" in such a peaceful 
way, gratified his hearers with a long and 
minute detail, spicing his narrative with 
frequent quotations in the original lan- 
guages, from the lives of Plutarch and his- 
tory of Livy, and not forgetting the valor- 
ous achievements of Corny Demijohn and 
the gallantry of his young friend Warden. 
This latter was unable to pay a very re- 
spectful attention to the narrator, being en- 
tirely absorbed in the contemplation of 
Lucy Neal, and the thoughts and conjec- 
tures which she awakened. She sat by her 
mother in the corner opposite to Warden, 
and so near the candle that the charms of 
her face and person were fully developed. 
As soon as she was seated, Warden caught 
her eye, and the look of- each indicated 
that by that glance they became better ac- 
quainted. Warden looked again, and she 
looked again, each gazing longer and more 
familiarly at the other, and becoming more 
communicative and intimate : they looked 
again, and they' were old and confidential 
friends. While M'Bride, therefore, was 
entertaining the others, Henry Warden 
and Lucy Neal were silently interchanging 



thoughts, unfolding their minds and dis- 
closing their hearts to each other. But 
when the master touched upon that part 
of his history relating particularly to he* 
new acquaintance, the bright-eyed girl lost 
not a single word, and, at its conclusion, 
glanced upon its subject a look full of sym- 
pathy and admiration, and which seemed 
to say, " I knew you were such a man." 
The old people now pressed Warden for 
an account of his adventures during the 
war, and he, yielding to their kind entreat- 
ies, sketched briefly the most prominent 
events in his career. Lucy listened in 
rapt attention, and more than once a bright 
tear glistened in her eyes. At the conclu- 
sion of the narrative, a hint, given in no 
gentle terms from the nostrils of Demi- 
john, announced that the hour for rest had 
arrived. The host, taking the hint, began 
to call the servants and give orders'about 
the quarters of his guests ; but Corny, in 
the mean time awaking, declared that it 
was yet quite early. 

" Never mind, my good friend," said he, ■ 
" it is quite early yet. My fatigues and 
my supper made me drowsy, but I'm now 
wide awake and would be glad to hear 
more about the widow Powell." 

A burst of laughter followed this speech, 
and Corny, rubbing his eyes, seemed much 
confused. Neal, informing jiis guests that 
it was his wont to hold prayers every 
night, read a chapter in the Bible, and then 
all knelt at the throne of grace. When 
the old man had finished, and all were 
again on their feet, the huge form of the 
miiitia captain, propped against the 'wall, 
was still bending in a most prayerful pos- 
ture. Neal, thinking him very devout, 
would not permit his devotions to be dis- 
turbed, until he began to mutter — 

" It's all as I tell you, to be sure it is, 
my duck, my dear duck. As the poet says, 
you shall be adorned with equity and made 
a silver queen." 

The slumbering knight was waked from 
his dream of love, and all retired to their 
respective places of rest, Lucy bidding 
Warden good-night with a manner, and 
casting on him a look, that dwelt in his 
mind like the parting beams of the setting 
sun, for some time after he was in b .:'. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

ADVENTURES IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

M'Bride, at an early hour next morning, 
was aroused by Captain Demijohn, and 
desired to walk with him to the woods. 
After the friends had advanced some dis- 
tance from the house in silence, the mas- 
ter, curious to know what revelations his 
companion had to make, intimated that 
they had gone far enough. 

"Mr. M : Bride," said Uncle Corny, "I 
have important business with you. and it 



ALAMANCE. 



71 



must be secret — yes, it must be secret. So 
please to walk on." 

And on they went, the master much con- 
cerned to know the object of the excur- 
sion, and running over in his mind the 
various incidents of their late march. 
He did not know but what he might have 
offended Corny, whose extremely hard 
breathing, solemnity of manner, and mys- 
terious looks excited some apprehensions 
of an unpleasant altercation. They were 
now far in the woods, when the master 
again suggested that it was time to return, 
as breakfast might be waiting. Uncle 
Corny, halting suddenly, gazed seriously 
and rather sternly in the face of his friend 
for at least a minute, and then remarked 
that there was a secret recess beneath the 
cliff before them, and that they could there 
do their business. At this they soon ar- 
rived — a deep niche in the side of a mount- 
ain, and which was overhung by huge 
rocks and darkened by the foliage of trees 
and a web of luxuriant and tangled vines. 

" Now," said the captain, with a tragical 
manner, to the agitated master, " now we 
will settle the affair. I wish to know of 
you what you think of the widow Powell." 

" If you mean the good woman at whose 
house we tarried after the battle," answer- 
ed M'Bride, " I think her handsome and 
clever. She was kind to us, and I re- 
member her with gratitude." 

"/think her handsome and clever too," 
resumed Uncle Corny ; " and as you may 
have observed — yes, to be sure you did ob- 
serve, that I was pleased with her. I was 
— of course 1 was, and if any man has any 
thing to say against her, lie must fight 
Cornelius Demijohn ; he must, by Mars !," 

"I'm sure, captain," answered the mas- 
ter, " that I have nothing to say against 
her : indeed, I profess to be a friend of 
hers." 

" You profess to be ! What are you in 
reality]" 

" A friend ; a good, true, and staunch 
friend." 

"Beware how you speak," exclaimed 
Corny ; " tell me truly, do you wish her 
well]" 

" With all my heart." 

"Then, sir," continued Demijohn, run- 
ning his hand in his pocket, and speaking 
with a husky and tremulous voice, " then, 
sir, I wish to inform you that 1 have brought 
you here to show you this lock of hair. 
It's genuine, sir; I cut it myself from her 
beautiful head." 

" Well, Uncle Corny," replied M'Bride, 
much relieved, " I should be pleased to 
know what object you have in showing it 
to me ]" 

"To be sure you would ; that is very 
true, I know you would, and I'll tell you. 
Here is a^lock of mine — I've picked the 
gray hairs out— here's a lock I wish you 



to preserve. I did not think to give it to 
her when I saw her, and last night brought 
my negligence to mind. I could have died 
satisfied when I rolled down that cursed hill 
if she had had this lock. I may get killed — 
you understand — some accident may hap- 
pen to me ; and, if it does, send her that 
relic." 

The master promising faithful obedience, 
and receiving many injunctions to be secret 
in regard to the sacred treasure given by 
the widow to Uncle Corny, the two friends 
returned to th^~HbUSe'"ahrrlc)und breakfast 
waiting. 

The captain and his little band now- 
learned with pleasure that an enterprise 
was on foot in the mountains, and imme- 
diately determined to join it. A guide was 
procured, after breakfast, who was to con- 
duct them to the rendezvous, and they took 
an affectionate leave of Warden, who was 
to remain where he was, and of Neal and 
his family. 

" We'll meet again," said the master. 

" 1 hope so," replied Warden, " and, if we 
do not, die worthy of Alamance, and re- 
member my heart is with you." 

"Be valiant," said Neal, "and God go 
with you and prosper you !" 

At length the adieus were all spoken, 
the parting over, and the Alamancers on 
the road. Warden stood watching them 
till the last man had faded from his sight, 
and then an oppressive sadness came over 
him. His recent parting from the friends 
of his youth seemed like separating him 
again from the home of his boyhood : he 
was again in the wide world and far from 
the sweet object around which the tendrils 
of his heart had grown from the time he 
was a child. Left by his discriminating 
friends to indulge alone his tender melan- 
choly, he strolled off to gaze on the face 
of Nature and " chp.wthecnd of sweet and^ 
j»itte£. fcuicjk" " — -—" " ' 
" "The house of Neal, as we have said, was 
planted in a valley, a green and level nat- 
ural meadow hemmed in on each side by a 
succession oitridge of mountains. Most 
of these rose steep and precipitous from 
the plain, their bold heads shooting straight 
up from the vale below, and like two rows 
of hostile Titans sternly and proudly con- 
fronting each other with silent and awe- 
inspiring gaze. They seemed as if, in 
some older time, two armies of earth-born 
giants, with their mightiest men in front, 
had marched against each other in hostile 
array until the foremost r^nks had nearly 
met'in terrible collision, when, by the fiat 
of Omnipotence, they were instantly ar- 
rested and changed to earth, there to stand 
forever, their huge javelins of rock still 
clinging in their nerveless grasp. On one 
side of the plain between them ran a creek 
some twenty yards broad, the speckled 
trout being clearly visible as they glanced 



72 



ALAMANCE. 



through the silver waters. The stream 
babbled along over its bed of pebbles, its 
volume being constantly increased by a 
succession of fountains that gushed, bright 
and rapid, from the sides and bases of the 
mountains, until, within a short distance 
from its source, it became a river. War- 
den, with the feeling of one imprisoned, 
was glad to find a foot-bridge over this 
creek, and a path winding from it up a 
sloping acclivity until it reached the sum- 
mit of the ridge. Following' this path and 
clambering along as well as he could in his 
enfeebled state, he arrived, by a tortuous 
route, at an elevation whence he could 
look beyond the walls of his castellated 
prison. On one side, as far as the eye 
could see, blue peaks on peaks arose into 
mid air, varying in shape, size, and colour, 
like the stupendous domes, minarets and 
cupolas of an endless and magnificent city 
in fairy-land, or, to use a figure perhaps 
more appropriate, like the vast tents of a 
countless host of genii, while the mists of 
the morning that were gathering in fleecy 
clouds around their summits might be 
taken for the banners, streamers, and pen- 
nons of the chiefs. On the other side these 
mighty barriers of Nature were gradually 
dwarfed till they dwindled into hills, and 
finally disappeared in the illimitable and 
undulating plain far below. The forests 
were clad in the russet and yellow-tinted 
livery of early autumn, and the slanting 
rays of the sun lit up the landscape with a 
thousand different hues, the distant planta- 
tions gleaming like spangles or lustrous 
specks in the wide and varied scene. 

The air was cool, bracing, and elastic ; 
the heavens were of a deep, stainless, and 
enchanting blue ; the clouds were light, 
ethereal, and transparent. Warden, who 
had an eye for the beautiful and grand, and 
whose jaded constitution began to feel the 
influence of the delightful climate, became 
animated with new hopes, fresher feelings, 
and brighter fancies. Inspired by the maj- 
esty and novelty of the scenes around 
him, his despondency vanished, and his 
mind, quickened in its energies, expanded 
with great and teeming thoughts and high 
resolves. Still, all his meditations and all 
his purposes would connect themselves 
with Edith Mayfield, and in all the castles 
in the air which his imagination built she 
was the irradiating sun, the central object 
of attraction. He had stood some time 
musing in a rapt mood, and was just be- 
ginning to contemplate the dark side of 
the picture which his fancy drew, when 
he was startled by a light, step behind him. 
He turned and met the gaze of Lucy Neal, 
whom, if he had not seen her before, he 
might well have taken for the genius of 
the place, the blue-eyed goddess of liberty. 
Her large, full eyes were indeed blue — 
blue, soft, and serene as the azure skies 



above them ; her light-coloured, loose hair, 
scarcely reaching to her shoulders, was 
parted on her forehead of the purest white, 
and thrown back so as to expose in full 
relief the chaste symmetry of a small, full 
face that looked like a Grecian model chis- 
elled from stainless alabaster, and in whose 
expression were blended the most perfect 
and artless innocence, tenderness, and in- 
telligence. A small foot and a slender 
ankle were plainly visible beneath a sim- 
ple dress that, displayed in all its gracefully- 
rounded proportions a form that was the 
handiwork of Nature only. 

When Warden saw her advancing to- 
wards him with her sun-bonnet in one hnnd 
and some faded flowers in the other, she 
seemed not the least confused, and was the 
first to speak, remarking, with a smile that 
sparkled in her eyes, that she had found 
the lost sooner than she expected. 

"And what lost one were you seeking, 
my sweet friend'?" asked Warden. 

" Who else should it be," replied the 
girl, "but the stranger who was so silly 
as to stray off by himself, and sick at that, 
among these mountains 1 You are the very 
person I was looking for, and father will 
call me a witch for finding you so soon. 
See, I've gathered some flowers for you ; 
but they have all been nipped by the. frost, 
though they are very sweet. Shall I pin 
them on your coatl" 

" Certainly," answered Warden, " and 
I'll wear them there in memory of the 
giver when we are far apart." 

" Which won't be soon," said Lucy, fast- 
ening the flowers to the collar of^jiis coat, 
and looking up into his face with a smile 
that tempted him strongly to touch his lips 
to hers. But he was not yet, in the fash- 
ionable sense of the word, a gallant, and 
though sadder and wiser, he was as simple 
and modest as the trusting child of Nature 
who stood by his side. Thanking her with 
few but kind and sincere expressions for 
her solicitude in his behalf, he learned from 
her that his melancholy in the morning had 
not been unobserved, and that as he was 
seen, in a sad and abstracted mood, to 
ascend the mountains alone, fears were 
entertained that in his feeble state he might 
over-exert himself, or meet with an acci- 
dent among the precipices which lined his 
path. Lucy, hearing her father express 
such fears, had at once, and unattended, 
started in pursuit of the wanderer. 

"Are you not afraid," asked Warden, 
" to be alone in these wilds with a stran- 
ger and a soldier like me 1 You are, I 
fear, too unsuspecting for such a world as 
this." 

" Why should I be afraid V) replied she ; 
" I know you are not a bad man, like somo 
I have read of." 

" And how do you know it 1 I am a total 
stranger to you." 



ALAMANCE. 



73* 



" No, you are not a stranger," she an- 
swered quickly ; " I know you as well as 
I know my father." 

" Know me !" exclaimed the officer ; 
" when did you ever see or hear of me 
before V 

" I never saw you, or heard of you either, 
till last night. It may seem curious to 
you, but when I first saw you, you looked 
like an old acquaintance and friend, or 
brother, I had known all my life. I know 
from your looks what sort of a man you 
are." 

Warden, much impressed by her lan- 
guage, replied, 

" There is more philosophy in your lan- 
guage than you are aware of, Lucy, if you 
will allow me to call you so." 
' "Please don't call me by any other 
name," said she, interrupting him. 

" I will not, and I am proud of the priv- 
ilege, for I despise to have to Miss my fe- 
male friends. As I was going to say, you 
hardly know the full truth of your words. 
The face is the best index to character; 
and on it our Maker has stamped our 
hearts. We may, by our acts and by our 
words, create false impressions ; our births, 
fortunes, and positions in society become 
identified, in the mind of the worldling, 
with our natures, and elevate and depress 
us above and below our proper level. But 
children and intelligent brutes, on whom 
our positions in society and our worldly 
means have no influence, read in our 
countenances our genuine worth, and rank 
us as we deserve. Rank, wealth and influ- 
ence are unknown to them, and they see 
the true heart and soul beaming in the 
face — the real man or woman. Thus you 
have seen me ; thus, too, have I seen you ; 
and I feel towards you as if I had known 
you all my life. We were friends before 
we had spoken a word to each other, and 
such let us ever be, reading and judging 
each other as God judges us, by the heart." 

Thus conversing, in the most free and 
confidential manner, and on various sub- 
jects— men, books, and society — they re- 
turned to the house, Lucy pointing out, on 
the way, the most beautiful and interesting 
scenes and localities, with all of which she 
connected a legend ; and Warden being 
astonished and delighted at finding a friend 
and companion so simple and so cultiva- 
ted, so refined in sensibility, so rich in fan- 
cy, and so good at heart. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

LUCY NEAL. 

The character of Lucy Neal daily and 
hoarly developed itself— daily and hourly 
exhibited a new beauty for the admiration 
of Henry Warden. She grew constantly 
into his feelings, and her society and con- 



versation became indispensable to him—: 
at least while he was away from home. 
There were a truthfulness and simplicity 
in all her words and actions ; an original- 
ity, brightness, and innocence in all her 
thoughts that struck him with as much as- 
tonishment as did her familiar acquaint- 
ance with the old English classics, her 
just conception of things, her total want 
of deception, and her entire ignorance of 
the world. Cradled amid scenes of the 
highest beauty and grandeur, and nurtured 
at the breasts of Nature herself, she was- 
the pure reflection of her mother, untainted 
by the gloss of art, fair, chaste, and tender 
as the first blossoms of spring that, on the 
untrodden prairie, or by the rugged mount- 
ain's side, open their soft bosoms to the 
light dews of April. 

From sunrise till late at night she and 
Warden were inseparable, reading to each 
other, visiting together caves, and springs, 
and noted places, and admiring together 
the shifting scenery of the country. Can 
a man love two objects at once ? He may 
at least love one and revere the memory 
of another. llenry-Wa*de.n 4 for years ac- 
customed to think on Edith"~M jayJ|e,ld» had 
come to regard her as alancTjful creation, a 
consecrated idea throned apart among the 
recollections of the past. He never for a 
moment forgot her ; but, divested now of 
all mortal attributes, and existing only in 
memory, she coidd no more fetter his af- 
fections than an angel or a departed spirit. 
Thus the sacredness of his feelings to- 
wards her was not abated, though Lucy 
began now to mingle more practically with 
his thoughts and his* plans of life. Indeed, 
he was now without plans, and so was she ; 
and, knowing only that they were happy, 
they thought not of the future. 

Dreams often affect us more powerfully 
than waking visions : and one night War- 
den dreamed of Edith Mayfield. When he 
awoke he loved her still, and she shone 
with a fresher lustre in his imagination. 
He concluded that he would, on the follow- 
ing day, adopt a new course of conduct to- 
wards Lucy ; but when he met her, fresh 
and beautiful as the morning, he thought 
no more of his resolution until he was 
again on his couch. His moral firmness 
was great, and he now determined at all 
hazards to break the spell that bound him 
to the mountains. On the next day an 
opportunity offered to test the feelings of 
Lucy, for she was visited by Sally Ewing, 
the belle of the mountains. Miss Sally 
seemed at once to take a fancy for War- 
den, and he, with the gallantry of his na- 
ture, repaid with interest her attentions. 
She remained two days at Neal's, during 
which time the young Alamancer assidu- 
ously cultivated her acquaintance, and 
almost turned her head with compliments 
and verses which he dedicated to her. She 



74 



ALAMANCE. 



was a rosy, lively, giddy young woman, 
spoiled by the addresses of many suitors 
and by the fond caresses of her parents, for 
she was an heiress. She became pleased 
with Warden, talked about him all night to 
Lucy, and was perfectly delighted when he 
accompanied her home. She had an only 
brother, a young man not deficient in in- 
telligence and manly beauty, but spoiled as 
much as herself, and regarded by all the 
ladies of his acquaintance as a great prize. 
Henry Warden had often heard Lucy speak 
of the great family of the Ewings, and he 
was by no means pleased when informed 
by Sally that her brother Ned and Lucy 
had been dedicated to each other by their 
respective parents, and that beyond all 
doubt they would some day be married. 
It was of no consequence to him — so rea- 
soned Henry Warden ; and yet he was not 
extravagantly rejoiced when he found that 
the young mountaineer, compassionating 
his lonely situation, proposed to go with 
him to Neal's and spend several days. 
Miss Sally herself had a hand in effecting 
this arrangement, and received, for her 
kind suggestion, the spoken thanks of the 
person intended to be benefitted and his 
secret dislike. Accordingly brother Ned 
got himself ready, and looking on a match 
between his sister and Warden as a settled 
thing, he treated the latter with fraternal 
affection and confidence ; ran over his his- 
tory on the road, and dwelt voluminously 
on his exploits in hunting foxes, killing 
bears arid deer, and catching racoons. 
Whenever Warden would pause to gaze 
on some scene of surpassing beauty, bro- 
ther Ned wouid connect the place with a 
legend of the chase, for which, and for 
which only, he supposed all the localities 
of the region had an interest for his friend. 
Arrived at Neal's, they were both received 
with kindness by Lucy; but during the day 
she exhibited a marked preference for the 
new comer, and listened with gratifying 
attention to his disquisitions on dogs, guns, 
horses, and wild turkeys. Henry bore all 
Lris very patiently, at first; but as Lucy 
still grew fonder to the other and colder to 
him, his vexation began to show itself in 
various ways. The day passed off, and 
that night the Alamancer found that he- 
was jealous. He had once concluded to 
leave the mountains immediately, for as 
long as he had no rival in the esteem of 
Lucy he was fearful of the consequences 
of his longer stay ; now he felt, what he 
had not felt before, a desire to win her af- 
fection, a dread of losing her friendship. 
But he had not time for much reflection, 
for brother Ned talked incessantly until 
both Tell asleep. On the following morn- 
ing Lucy looked not so well as usual, and 
met Warden with a tenderness in her man- 
ner which he was not in a mood to observe 
or appreciate. Desiring to commune with 



himself, he walked down the valley to a 
nook, on the sunny side of a mountain, ab- 
sorbed in his own reflections. He did not, 
however, fail to observe the romantic 
character of the place where he sat ; a 
place that seemed to have been formed as 
a bower of love for the deities of the wood. 
It was a semicircular chamber or alcove, 
cut deep in the base of the mountain and 
covered over with small trees, whose 
boughs were woven together by vines of 
wild honeysuckle ; and seats of turf, and 
beds of flowers, and sweet shrubs were 
tastefully arranged over the area. On the 
front side stood a large and aged maple, 
and a few yards off was a spring of clear, 
pure water that gushed up from a bed of 
white pebbles, and which was walled in 
with rock. On the other side of the val- 
ley, and not far off, the creek before men- 
tioned kept up its perpetual babble ; and far 
up and down its course the eye ranged 
along a narrow green valley, on each side 
of which cliffs of rock along the sides of 
the mountain were darkly visible among 
the thick foliage above which they rose, 
looking like the turrets and towers of an- 
cient and dilapidated castles. Warden had 
often lounged in the place before : and as 
he now sat, reflecting on those past and 
happy hours, he heard the rustle of a dress 
behind him, and the next instant Lucy 
Neal was seated by his side. Laying her 
small, white hand in his, and looking up 
into his face w r ith the most affectionate 
and tender expression beaming in her 
own, she exclaimed, with a smile, " Now, 
Henry, you know how it feels !" 

" I am doubtful as to what you mean," 
said Warden ; " but, if I am right in my 
opinion, you make me happy indeed. I 
suppose — excuse me if I am wrong — I sup- 
pose you have been paying me back for 
my attentions to the celebrated and accom- 
plished Miss Sally Ewing. Am I right?" 

Lucy blushed and hung her head for a 
moment, and then replied, " I was very 
unhappy, and 1 ought not to have acted 
so." 

What would the gallant reader have done 
in Warden's situation 1 what could he have 
done 1 Few. perhaps, who 'see these pages 
could be as self-denying as the Alamancer, 
whose sense of his responsible and deli- 
cate position again rushed upon him with 
painful force. He raised her head to his 
lips — he kissed it over and over again, ex- 
claiming, " May God bless you forever, 
my dear, clear friend !" 

He committed himself no farther; but 
Lucy was happy, entirely so, and totally 
forgot her suitor, who was impatiently 
awaiting her return to the. house. War- 
den, however, remembered him at last, 
and suggested that it would be rudeness 
in them to stay away longer from their 
guest. 



,.r 






ALAMANCE. 



75 



" I don't care if it is," said his compan- 
ion, "and I hope he'll never visit me again. 
I don't want to see him, or think of him 
any more ; for if I do I'll hate him, and that 
wonld be a sin. I shall never hear his 
name again without being unhappy." 

"It should not be so," answered War- 
den; " for I'm sure that, so far from dislik- 
ing what has happened, it has made me 
happier than I was. I should never think 
of your conduct with the slightest vexa- 
tion, or condemn you in the least." 

"Won't you, in fact? Do you fully for- 
give me for what I did 1 and will you for- 
get it all, as if it had never been? Please 
tell me the truth." 

" This is the seal to my assertion," said 
Warden, again kissing her hand, and then 
holding it in both of his. " As I hope to 
be saved, I declare to you that I will not 
and cannot blame you, nor shall a shadow 
of displeasure in regard to you ever cross 
my mind. . In your own language — please, 
please forget all that has past. You'll 
make me miserable if you think of it at 
all." 

She replied only with a look; and, hand- 
in-hand, they returned to j,he house. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

/ 
" There is a Divinity that shapes our ends. 
Rough-hew them as we will." 

Shakspeaee. 

Henry Warden was now fully aware 
that his. situation had become extremely 
critical. It was time for him to take some 
decisive step: yet what could he do'? He 
was too modest, and had too humble an 
opinion of himself to believe, merely from 
her conduct, that he was loved by Lucy 
Neal; but still, he could not but feel that 
she regarded him with a tender interest. 
Was lie to presume that her affections 
were fixed on him, and, acting under this 
supposition, to disclose to her frankly the 
secrets of his own heart, or leave her at 
once without making any explanations 1 
The fanner course might grossly insult 
her ; the latter might involve her in dis- 
tressing doubts, and shake her confidence 
in her friend. Besides, was it prudent to 
forego a certaintv of happiness for an un- 
certainty of bliss? Edith Mayfield had 
rejected his suit, had spurned from her the 
first and brightest coinage of his soul, and 
had, as he feared, proved to be deceitful 
and selfish. Thus, it was doubtful wheth- 
iv he could ever win her; and if he should 
succeed in that, it was still more doubtful 
whether a union with her would prove a 
blessing. It is not the lot of mortals to be 
entirely blest, thought he, and it is folly 
to expect it. Lucy is beautiful — she is 
young, artless, and innocent. She is, in 
fact, all I could wish a woman to be; and, 
though I cannot love her as wildly and 



fervently as I once loved Edith, I cannot 
but regard her with ceaseless tenderness, 
and we can be as happy together as it is 
possible to be on earth. My first love 
was a foolish dream — a delirium, as the 
master calls it, and the charms and perfec- 
tions of its object the creations of my 
own young imagination. When he came 
to this conclusion he found himself ex- 
tremely miserable, and he saw at once that 
it was impossible for him ever to esteem 
another woman if his early hope should 
prove to be a baseless fabric. We ask 
again, what could he do? The wisdom of 
mortals is often the extremest folly ; and, 
knowing this, Warden resolved to be guided 
by circumstances, and to try further the 
heart of Lucy Neal. In the execution of 
this plan he one day abruptly informed 
her that he was going to return to Ala- 
mance. " I'm in earnest," said he, " for I 
have over-staid my time and must leave 
to-morrow." 

Lucy essayed to make a reply; but. not 
being able to speak, she began to weep, 
and Warden remained silent, not. knowing 
what to do or say. Lucy, however, re- 
lieved his embarrassment by leaving the 
room, and, hastily washing her face, she 
returned again, smiling and blushing. 

" Why did you attempt to quiz me so ?" 
asked Warden, somewhat astonished at 
the sudden change in her manner. 

" I was just in fun," replied she, and, 
attempting to laugh, she again burst into 
tears and withdrew. 

Warden took up her scrap-book, in 
which she had before requested him to in- 
scribe some memento, and, going down to 
the alcove,. wrote the following piece: — 

This book is like the sacred ground 

Where all the parish dead are laid, 
Where daily o'er some fresh-made mound 

Sad tears are shed and vows are made ; 
Next day there's silence o'er that grave 

But yester-morn by mourners prest ; 
And soon th' untrodden grass will wave 

Above our friend's last place of rest. 
Thus o'er each token graven here. 

You will a moment weep and sigh, 
But ere the next shall claim a tear 

The last you'll read with careless eye ; 
And few short years will by you glide, 

With all their varied hopes and aims, 
Before this book is thrown aside, 

A record of forgotten names. _ 
But if, like many, you should find 

Each lover false, each friend a knave, 
When wayward Fortune proves unkind, 

And all your hopes are in the grave ; 
When from these leaves thy tearful eyes 

Recall fond mem'ries of the past, 
Then know that, buried here, there lies / 

A heart that thee to the last." J 

Lucy did not read these lines until the 
author again left the house, and when he 
returned she hastily closed the book, while 
her eyes swam with tears. 

" 1 fear I have offended you, Lucy," said 
Warden, taking up the book, and turning 



76 



ALAMANCE. 



to the page on which his piece was writ- 
ten. 

"Why do you think I am offended?" 
asked Lucy. 

" You look as if you were." 

" My looks don't represent me fairly, 
theu ; " replied Lucy ; " and, in fact, it seems 
that you have all the time mistaken my 
character." 

" I feared to write, the piece," said War- 
den, " for it is impossible for me not to 
speak warmly when the rhyming fervour 
is on me. They are my true sentiments, 
however, for I shall ever remember you, 
though you may not be obliged to me for it." 

Lucy, hurt and surprised at this lan- 
guage, gave the' speaker a look that fairly 
made his breast ache, and again a flood of 
tears drowned those bright and tenderly- 
beaming orbs. 

"For God's sake forgive me," passion- 
ately exclaimed Warden, at the same time 
taking one of her hands in both of his. 
" Forgive me, Lucy, my dear, sweet friend, 
if I have wounded your feelings. I did not 
mean to do it ; indeed, I did not understand 
you when you said I had mistaken your 
character. Please, please do not. cry so, 
for every tear you shed burns upon my 
heart. Do you forgive me V 

" I meant," said Lucy, drying her eyes, 
" that you did not know me if you thought 
me fickle and forgetful. I know, Mr. War- 
den, I shall never forget you, and I 
thought you ought not to have believed 
that 1 would." 

." So you may now think, Lucy," an- 
swered he ; " but a few years, and new 
scenes and new acquaintances will make a 
great change." 

" So you may now think," said Lucy, 
smiling; " but when you've tried me you'll 
change, I hope, and will then be ready to 
finish " 

" Finish what ?" asked Warden. 

Lucy hung her head and blushed, and at 
last answered, in scarcely audible tones, 
" It's no matter, and I ought not to have 
mentioned it." 

" 1 understand you now," replied War- 
den, " and will do as you desire. I could 
not find a word that suited me ; for ' prized" 1 
and ' likcaV do not express my feelings, and 
are unpoetical. I'll go down to the alcove 
and see if your name upon the maple will 
not inspire me." 

He was now fully determined to write 
"loved" in the blank in the last line; but 
as soon as he set his foot in the bower 
Edith Mayfield came into his mind, and all 
the early history of his life rushed upon 
him with overwhelming force. He had, 
though he scarcely knew it, been long 
struggling with himself, and now the crisis 
had come ; and his moral firmness tri- 
umphed. His resolution was fixed at last, 
and immovably ; and as he hastened to the 



house he thought he heard at the gate the 
sound of a well-known voice. It struck 
strangely on his ear, and, hardly believing 
his senses, he hurried to the lane, and 
there, to his inexpressible astonishment 
and delight, he met with Rust and his 
sable namesake, Ben. From these he re- 
ceived his mother's letter, informing him 
of his brother's illness, and he immediately 
began to prepare for his return to Ala- 
mance. 

Lucy Neal no longer urged, as she had 
formerly done, the further stay of her 
friend, and had but little to say during the 
evening and the sad night which followed. 
She was, however, extremely attentive to 
the wants of Warden's two friends, while 
on himself her swimming eyes were con- 
stantly bent, and her manner towards him 
was full of timorous and touching tender- 
ness. Struggling between smiles and tears 
she glided about the house, preparing va- 
rious articles for his journey, «md occa- 
sionally suggesting precautions to him 
with a voice whose trembling melody 
melted like a strain of sweet, sad music, 
into the heart of every hearer. There 
were few dry eyes that night at the con- 
clusion of the prayer of Abraham Neal. 
" Good-night" fell mournfully and softly 
from the lips of every one, and Rust was 
the only one who slept that night beneath 
the roof of The Mountain Home. His was 
the only appetite at breakfast next morn- 
ing, and he only said " farewell" when the 
parting occurred. The tears streamed 
down the cheeks of the venerable Neal, 
his wife kept her handkerchief to her eyes, 
and even the servants wept. Lucy, how- 
ever, who had cried before when Warden 
spoke of returning, now, tearless and silent, 
pressed his hand, and then immediately 
ran to her chamber, at a window in which 
her face and handkerchief were visible. 
Warden himself looked back at every step, 
till he came to the great maple on which 
he had carved her name ; and then, taking 
out his own handkerchief, he waved it at 
Lucy, kissed it, and hanging it on a bough 
of the tree, disappeared in the forest. She 
was soon at the alcove; and, while press- 
ing the handkerchief to her breast, a note 
fell out, which she often kissed before she 
read : " I had much to tell you, but could 
not. Forgive me, and remember me as a 
brother. We'll meet again on earth or in 
heaven, Lucy. Adieu ! H. W." 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

HOME AFTER A LONG ABSENCE. 

Henry Warden's feelings became more 
and more depressed as he advanced from 
his late pleasant retreat. He little dreamed, 
until he parted from her, of the hold which 
Lucy Neal had acquired upon his feelings, 



ALAMANCE 



rr 



f ,r d« as is usually the case, he began, when 
too late, to remember her various excel- 
lences, her pure a*hd fervent attachment 
for himself, the happiness which, with her, 
he might enjoy, and his folly in not ac- 
cepting the boon which had been thrown 
in his way. He remembered, too, that 
Lucy was just such a character as he had 
once supposed Edith Mayfield to be, and 
that this latter was not such a being as he 
had imagined she was. When, however, 
the mountains, which spoke of Lucy, had 
melted from his sight, a new train of 
thoughts came into his mind, and old asso- 
ciations and recollections were revived. 
He listened with more attention to the 
stones of the two Bens, one of whom was 
constantly talking, and became more im- 
patient to get home. Guided by the tact 
and skill of Rust, he was soon at Alamance, 
arriving in ,the night, at the house of his 
friend and companion. Here, he heard of 
his brother's death, of the forfeiture of his 
father's estate to Nathan Glutson by the 
terms of a mortgage made long ago, of 
the disappearance of the negroes, and the 
flight of his mother and sister, who had 
taken refuge at p]sther Bell's. He heard 
also, for the first time, of the fate of Edith 
Mayfield ; and his heart giving way under 
its accumulated sorrows, he remembered 
the advice of the master, and bitterly re- 
pented his folly in having risked his hap- 
piness on the chances of such an uncertain 
hazard. He was more than ever anxious 
to see his mother and sister, and, despatch- 
ing a messenger to them that night to no- 
tify them of his arrival, was informed that 
they would meet him at sunrise on the 
following morning, in a place near Esther 
Bell's, known as the Grape-vine Thicket. 
Thither, before the appointed hour, Henry 
Warden went, and was soon locked in the 
embraces of mother and sister, no one of 
the three for a long time speaking a single 
word. The earth was still wrapped in the 
thin shadows of the morning twilight, and 
hence neither mother nor son could see 
the changes which time had worked in 
the features of the other ; but, dark as it 
was, Henry observed a great alteration in 
the person of Kate. When he left her 
last, she was a mere child, and now the 
same Kate lay in his arms a beautiful girl, 
already nearly a woman, and a new pang 
shot through his heart as he remembered 
the humble position which, as a lady, she 
would have to take in society in conse- 
quence of his father's slender circum- 
stances. Mrs. Warden was the first to 
break silence, and avoiding all allusion to 
the affecting incidents of her own history, 
she pressed her son for an account of his 
adventures. His story was very briefly 
told, for he was now sufficiently master of 
himself to inquire into the particulars of 
matters which were burning in the hearts 



of all. After a long and minute account 
of the life, actions, saymgs, illness, and 
death of little Wash, and of family trou- 
bles, Mrs. Warden spoke as follows : 

" I know, my son, what you wish to hear. 
She has left us, and it is supposed that she 
was drowned, though some strangely sus- 
pect Nathan Glutson to be guilty of her 
death. That she loved you I have no 
doubt ; for, though she never told me so, I 
could read it in her actions. She came 
almost every day- to enquire about you, 
and the last time I saw her — the very &uy 
before she disappeared — she was at our 
house, and seemed so sad that I pressed 
her to let me know what ailed her. She 
said she had her sorrow's, which wem 
known only to herself, and that although 
every body thought she was happy, she 
was in reality the most miserable person 
on earth. My kind words caused her to 
weep very much, and seemed to open her 
heart, for she promised to make me her 
only confident the next time she saw me, 
and requested me to remember her to you. 
It is said that people of fine .sensibilities 
often have presentiments of coming evils, 
and I begin to believe it, for I never saw 
Edith look so sorrowful as she did when 
she bade me farewell. She was so meek, 
so gentle, so tender and sad, and her eyes 
shone with such a soft and unnatural light, 
that she seemed to me to be about to leave 
this world for a better, and no doubt she 
and little Wash are now thinking of you 
in heaven." 

Each of the three, occupied with a train 
of unutterable thoughts which this speech 
produced, sat musing in silence for several 
minutes, and again the mother was the 
first to speak. 

" My son," said she, " the sun is some 
distance up, and it is time for you to leave 
us, for the Tories will hear of you and 
soon be about." 

" Mother," answered Henry, " I cannot 
leave you, and my heart reproaches me 
already for having remained away so long. 
If the Tories are swarming over the coun 
try, it is the very reason why I should bo 
here to protect you and sister Kate." 

" Your presence can do us little good," 
replied Mrs. Warden, " and may do your- 
self a great injury. W T e are in no imme- 
diate danger, for the murderers and robbers 
never dare to come to Esther Bell's." 

" They have injured you, though," ex- 
claimed Henry; "and the blood of my 
brother cries for vengeance. I tell you, 
mother, I cannot leave you, for I would be 
wretched, and every moment would im- 
agine that I heard your dying shrieks." 

" You must go, my son," said the mo 
ther; "you must go where you can best 
serve your country, and then you will be 
serving me. You are not used to the arti- 
fices and cunning of the Tories, and they 



& 



ALAMANCE 



would certainly put you to death in less 
than a week if" you were to remain. Go 
again to the army ; put your twist in God, 
and fight bravely for our rights. Read 
daily the Bible I gave you when you left 
before, and if we never meet again on 
earth, let us prepare for a meeting in a 
brighter- world.. Come, my dear son, let 
us part." 

"Stay one' minute," cried Henry War- 
den, " and let me say another word. Who 
is to provide for you? Who is to provide 
for sister Kate, who will soon be a wo- 
man? You say all our property is gone, 
and you are perfectly destitute and depen- 
dent on the charity of others. I cannot 
endure that such should be the case, and 
it almost maddens me to think that dear 
Kate, so tender, so delicate,, and so beauti- 
ful, should now become a drudge. She 
must and she shall be a lady, and I will be 
the drudge. I will throw aside nry arms, and 
labor till I am worn down with toil before 
she shall sink from that rank in which she 
was born and raised." 

" My son, my son, beware of pride ; it is 
a most sinful passion. It is not fortune, 
rank, and fine clothes that make the lady, 
and Kate will be one in any rank and any 
dress. The first characteristic of the lady, 
and of the gentleman, is an ability to act 
worthy of the situation in which God has 
been pleased to place, them. Kate's heart 
is as good, and pure, and gentle, as it ever 
was, and yet she cheerfully performs the- 
duties of her new position. So let us all 
act, and may the blessing of Heaven rest 
on you, my dearest, son. Good-by !" 

The heart-strings of the mother were 
breaking, yet she shed not a tear, and did 
not, like her daughter, look back until she 
was nearly out of view, when she turned, 
waved her handkerchief, and then rushed 
into the house, and, locking herself in her 
chamber, poured the sorrows of her sur- 
charged breast into that ear that is ever 
listening to the cries of the desolate. As 
for Henry Warden,, he became rivetted to 
the spot where the meeting occurred, and 
stood gazing towards the house, thinking 
of a thousand tender things which he 
ought to have said, and imagining that he 
could 9tV-[ see the dear ones who had left 
hi n. All the features of the scene around 
him were graven in his memory; every 
rock, and tree, and shrub, became invested 
with a peculiar interest, and the place was 
ever after sacred ground to him. At last 
he remembered his father, and his duty to 
him, and started for his hiding-place, in- 
tending to pass in his route the old War- 
den place, and other scenes where he had 
spent the happiest portion of his life. He 
was partially disguised, wearing a slouched 
hat, which concealed his features, and an 
overcoat over his arms, and laying aside, 
as far as he could, his military air and 



manner. Arrived at the Warden estate, 
he wandered through the fields add mead- 
ows, living over again the scenes of his 
i boyhood. Although the plantation looked 
desolate, blackened by the smoke of fires 
that had consumed all the fences, the 
barns, and out-houses, and not a living 
creature was any where to be seen, it was 
still to Henry Warden the most beautiful 
spot on earth, more beautiful than it had 
ever seemed before. Here -were the old 
fields over which, with merry clamour of 
boys and dogs, he had often chased the 
timid hare in the bright, frosty winter 
mornings ; the smooth, green meadows, 
where he had watched the shadows of the 
clouds sweeping over the wavy grass, and 
rolled in the sweet-smelling hay, listening 
to the hum of bees among the flowers, and 
the song of the neighbouring ploughman, 
while 

, " Merrily the mower whet his scythe." 

Yonder stood an old birch, a living chron- 
icler of the past — telling, with its rudely- 
carved names, and dates, and hearts, pleas- 
ant stories of times gone by ; and near by 
it was the patriarch oak, beneath whose 
leafy canopy he had whiled away many 
a summer day in rapt meditation, and in 
building castles, airy, light, and beautiful 
as the many-tinted clouds that lazily float- 
ed over him. Every object that he saw 
had a tale to tell ; around each still clus- 
tered a thousand recollections ; still lin- 
gered the bright, familiar spirits with which 
his happy fancy long ago had peopled it. 
They come again at his bidding, these 
shadowy friends of his younger days ; but 
no voice or sound were heard among them, 
and their pale faces looked sadly on him. 
Here, thought he, I spent my innocent 
childhood, with a thousand fair and tender 
beings—here, by each hill and vale, and 
green-margined brook, were the fairy 
realms where I lived so happy among the 
bright, pure creatures of my fancy. And 
these are -now the property of another; 
these, around which my heart-strings must 
ever twine, are the possessions of my en- 
emy. Sweet home of my childhood ! My 
dear, native earth, I must see you no more : 
With this determination he turned his back 
on the place, when his eyes fell on an 
object that arrested his attention, for it 
seemed strangely in keeping with the deso- 
lation that reigned around. This was a 
very aged and decrepit negro, in gar- 
ments that looked as aged as himself, and 
who, with a long stick in his hand, and 
bent nearly double, was hobbling across a 
neighbouring field in the direction of War- 
den. The latter waited until the old man 
approached, but finding that his hearing 
was almost totally gone, he deemed it 
prudent to ask no questions. The negro 
seemed to know but little; said he be- 



A L A M A N E. 



79 



longetl to Esther Bell, and, thinking "Mas- 
sa stranger," might be lost, he had come 
to put him in the road he wished to travel. 

"I know these roads well," -said Warden, 
" and can find my way ; but, nevertheless, 
I am still grateful to you for your kind 
intentions." 

" And whar mout young massa be 
gwine!" asked the negro. 

" I am wandering about for amusement," 
answered Warden, '-and am going by the 
school-house and the church. Good-day, 
old man !" 

"Good-day, massa, and God bless you!" 

It struck the judge, after he had left the 
negro, that he had been imprudent, and 
that he ought to change his course ; but 
not being able to resist his inclinations, he 
passed on over ground, every inch of which 
was sacred, and came in sight of the old 
field school. The place being fixed in his 
memory as he last saw it, and all the in- 
tervening tract of time being for the pres- 
ent forgotten, he almost expected to be 
greeted by the merry din which he had 
been accustomed there to hear. As he 
approached, the utter silence that reigned, 
and the changes which he saw, brought 
painfully to his mind the solitary condition 
of the place, and solemnly impressed him 
with the suitable character of all earthly 
things. The paths and the well-trodden 
play-ground were overgrown with grass 
and sedge ; the yard was choked up with 
leaves and fallen limbs, and the house filled 
with cobwebs and dusti A few old books 
and scraps of paper lay scattered about ; 
a rusty slate or two hung against the walls, 
with half-effaced figures on them ; the mas- 
ter's desk was overturned, spiders were 
weaving through the house, and lizards 
and scorpions ran, frightened, over the 
floor and benches. Taking with him a 
few memorials of the past, Warden next 
directed his steps to the church, and going, 
first into the grave-yard, he found that it 
had also changed, but differently from the 
place which he had just left ; for while the 
latter had become desolate, the former ap- 
peared to have been often visited. Fol- 
lowing his mother's directions, he went 
first to his brother's grave, and throwing 
himself upon it, the fountains of his heart 
overflowed and he wept like a child. He 
had seen men fall like grain before the 
reaper ; he had seen death in its most 
ghastly forms, but never had it appeared 
to him so awful and so dread as when he 
reflected that in the damp earth beneath 
ljim, in its dark, narrow tenement, lay 
mouldering into dust the manly form of his 
little brother, so full of life and beauty 
when he saw him last. He began, too, to 
think of the poor lad's last hours, and his 
reflections became so torturing, that, to 
relieve himself, he strolled over the ground, 
wondering who filled the many new graves, 



and noting the inscriptions on the ancient 
tombstones. The modern ones were of 
marble, but those of an old date were gen- 
erally formed from slate-rock, were over- 
grown with moss and ivy, and covered 
with curious and half-effaced emblems, and 
passages from Scripture. On one he found 
only a name, and a circle which he sup- 
posed was intended to represent eternity. 
On several there were globes, and sei ; 
and doves in the act of flying from them ; 
on others, were broken wheels and extin- 
guished candles ; and on one, a very an- 
cient one, was a solitary star. His atten- 
tion was, however, particularly attracted 
by an old slab of blue slate,' which was. 
deeply sunk into the earth, and seemed to 
be crumbling away. Lifting it out of the 
ground, and cleaning off the dirt, he saw, 
roughly carved upon it, a mound, and the 
figure of a man standing by it and g 
at a rainbow. Under the name and ago 
of the person to whose memory the stone 
was sacred was the inscription, 

" She died in hope— so let us live." 

The inscription had a happy effect on his 
feelings ; a*nd, casting a parting glance at his 
brother's grave, he went into the church. 
Here he had never been alone before, and 
as his footsteps echoed through the empty 
building, and he looked round on the va- ' 
cant pews and pulpit, he w r as strangely 
affected. He had been so accustomed, 
when he entered, to see faces around and 
above him, and multitudes of people, and 
the house Avere so intimately associated in 
his mind, that, for a moment, he imagined 
himself to be the last survivor of the gen- 
eration with whom he had worshipped 
there. Unusually large as was the house 
for a country church, he recollected to 
whom each pew had belonged, and the 
place in it where each member of the fam- 
ily sat during the service. Thus he knew 
the precise place often occupied by Edith 
Mayfield, and, seating himself in it, he saw 
lying on the floor a pocket Bible, whirl! 
seemed to have been recently used. He 
regarded it as a sacred relic, for Edith's 
name was in it ; and, turning over the leaves 
he found on the margin of a page, and just 
under the metrical version of the sixty- 
seventh psalm, the initials "H. and E. 
W.," enclosed in a heart, around which 
was the word " Eternity," and under which 
a date which he remembered corresponded 
with that on which he had written to her, 
desiring to engage himself. " Too late, too 
late !" thought he, kissing the inscription ; 
" the master was right: the full fruition of 
love is not to be enjoyed on earth, but 
surely is to be in heaven. Edith, dear, dear • 
Edith, I will think only on thee while I live, 
and prepare to meet thy pure spirit where 
sorrow and parting are never known!" 
Thus resolving, he next seated himself in 



80 



, A HI A N C E . 



his father's pew, and conjuring up the limes 
that were gone, and peopling the house 
with its former Sabbath tenants, bright 
and familiar faces were gathering round 
him, and he could almost imagine that he 
heard the voice of his old friend the par- 
son, when a noise in the closet under the 
pulpit aroused him from his pleasant rev- 
ery to a state of very unpleasant agitation. 
Reason, education, and experience had 
not entirely eradicated those superstitious 
feelings which are inherent in every na- 
ture, and especially in those of a refined, 
poetical temperament ; and Warden began 
to wish himself away. He dreaded no par- 
ticular danger; but then the very vague- 
ness of his fears rendered them the more 
distressing ; and as the noise was again re- 
peated, his hair rose, and cold shudders 
ran over him, when the door of the closet 
flew open and the Rev. Dr. Caldwell made 
his appearance. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

DISCOVERIES. 

The parson, aware that his situation 
was an awkward one, began immediately 
to define his position. " The times don't 
admit of ceremony," said he, " and there- 
fore I'll explain to you at once how I came 
to be here, and I will expect you to do the 
same in regard to yourself. Now, you 
must know that under that closet I have 
prepared a secret door, and that, when 
hard pushed, 1 take refuge there; and if 
the closet should be forced open, I can 
escape under the floor of the house. Such 
is the cause of my being housed up there 
this morning. The Tories have become 
ravenous, and the few Whigs left at Ala- 
mance have determined to join the army 
of General Greene. This very morning, at 
dawn, I parted from your father, he 
aiming for the army and I for Esther 
.Bell's, to deliver some messages from him 
to your mother. I was on foot ; and, as 1 
came on, three villainous Tories, also afoot, 
saw me and gave chase, and such a race a 
parson never had before. As the rascals 
were gaining on me I dashed in at Alex- 
ander's, told his heroic daughters to act as 
I if were hid about the premises, and see- 
ing that they understood me, I escaped by 
the back door, plunged into a swamp, and 
rcfely made my way hither. When you 
first, entered the church 1 believed you 
were one of my pursuers ; but when you 
came to your father's pew, I was enabled, 
after a long peep, to make out your fea- 
tures. I knew you were sent for and the 
cause, and so tell me, in brief, where you 
came from, how you have been, what you 
are doing here, and whither you are going." 

"1 have been generally well," answered 
Warden, "excepting some slight wounds 



I received in the battle of Camden, of 
which you have heard. I came from the 
mountains whither I was carried. I am 
here to gratify a natural feeling, and I am 
going " 

" Hush ! hush !" exclaimed the doctor. 
" Do you not hear voices by the creek?" 

Before Warden could answer, three men 
appeared on the brow of the hill which led 
down from the side of the church in which 
the two friends were standing, and the 
parson immediately knew them to be the 
same persons who had chased him in the 
morning. He and Warden also saw that 
William Glutson wa3 oneof the party ; and 
the young officer, true to the instinct of 
the soldier, instantly drew and cocked his 
pistols, and, handing one to the doctor, 
said, " Make sure of the man on the left, 
and I'll pink the one on the right." 

" I will when it is necessary," answered 
the parson'; "but for the present let us 
watch and listen. See ! they are coming 
right under this window, and we may gain 
some important information. Keep per- 
fectly still, and we can hear every word 
through this broken glass." " 

The Tories did come under the window, 
and seated themselves on a bench by the 
side of the church, Will Glutson saying, 
as he sat down, " I shouldn't be surprised, 
Pete, after all, to find that you've been 
fooled." 

" How could I be fooled ?" answered the 
one spoken to ; " haven't I told you what I 
saw and heard with my own ears and eyes ? 
The man that fools me will have to rise 
before day." 

" What sort of a negro was it that you 
saw 1 Describe his looks, and tell us all 
that passed." 

" He was a miserable old sinner, with 
one foot in the grave and 'tother hobbling 
to it, and was so deaf that I made myself, 
hoarse in bellowing to him. He knows 
nothing and nobody, except his master and 
mistress and the parson, and couldn't even 
tell that there was a war going on. I told 
him I wanted to see the preacher badly, as 
my child was very sick, and he said he 
had just lent him his horse, and that he had 
gone off in a prodigious hurry to see some 
one at Esther Bell's. So you see he has 
fooled the old negro and given us the slip." 

" The devilish old fox !" exclaimed 
Glutson ; " his hide and tallow would have 
been worth a fortune to me. D — n him ! I 
thought I had him sure," 

"And so did I," said Pete Simmons, 
" and was beginning to laugh to myself as 
I thought how we'd roast his ribs. I would 
have been sheriff; and, gods ! how I would 
have welted him every pop! (Here the 
old gentleman alluded to unconsciously 
winced and felt his back.) I was so sure 
of him," continued the last speaker, " that 
I was cutting him about at random to find 



ALAMANCE 



SI 



his tender points. Holy Moses ! wouldn't 
I have made him hop as I jerked him over 
the naked legs." (The old gentleman did 
hop, but soon recovered his composure.) 

'• We'll get the old cock yet," said Glut- 
son, " and then you may tickle him to your 
heart's satisfaction. In the mean time I 
have great news to tell you — Henry War- 
den has returned to Alamance." 

11 What! him they called the judge 1 ?" 
asked Dick Sikes. 

" The very same ; come, by G — d, right 
into a trap, and this night we'll take hiin " 
It was now Warden's time to start ; but 
a motion of the doctor's hand admon- 
ish sd him to be quiet, and Glutson con- 
tinued : "Great times are ahead. I know 
the sneaking, whey-faced hero well, and 
he'll stay with Ben Rust to-night, for Ben 
hi .■: also come with him. We must and 
can take them both, and these are my 
plans : There are five of our friends at, fa- 
ther's, and we three make eight. Do you 
two prowl about Bell's and Rust's this 
evening till night, and I will also have spies 
out in every direction. At ten o'clock we 
will meet- here, and every man must have 
a gun, a sword, and two pistols and a dirk, 
and surely eight of us can storm Captain 
Poll's castle, and take her and all her 
friends. We'll surround the house about 
twelve o'clock, shoot old Poll if necessary, 
and if not, tie her ; we'll then hang Ben up 
at her door for a sign, and the judge, as 
he is called, must be taken alive." 

" For my part," said the Tory who had 
last spoken before, " I don't care to be en- 
gaged in this business, for I have nothing 
against the judge. I never saw him ; but 
I used to know him by report, and it always 
spoke well of him." 

^ " And for that very reason I hate him," 
exclaimed Glutson; "he has crossed me, 
too, and I intend that he shall pay for it 
if it is fifty years hence. I look on this 
whole war as one between me and him, 
and I intend to spend my life in perse- 
cuting him and his family. But there are 
other reasons for our putting him out of 
the way, Dick, and you shall be well paid 
for your trouble if you join us ; and if you 
don't, your throat shall be cut from ear to 
ear. Do you hear me 1" > 

"Yes, I hear you and heed you too," 
replied Dick ; "I am always ready for a 
fair bargain ; and as you've hired me, and 
the pay seems to be good, I'll go it. I 
can't afford to quarrel with my bread and 
meat, especially as you take all the re- 
sponsibility." 

" Certainly I do," returned Will Glut- 
son, laughing. " It's twelve o'clock, boys, 
and so let's adjourn; and, remember ten 
o'clock to-night!" 

The Tories now left, and were soon out 
of sight, much to the relief of the parson, 
who had a difficult task in restraining War- 
F 



den from trying his strength with Glutson. 
"A time will come," said the old man, 
"when you may have a chance to grapple 
with him out of sight of this holy edifice 
sacred to peace. And now let us also be 
moving, for we must go immediately to 
Rust's, and consult about our common 
safety. The vile dogs ! they have not got 
me yet, nor will they while my trust re- 
mains in the mercy of God and the speed 
of my legs." 

The reverend gentleman had no lack of 
courage — indeed he was as fearless as any 
man of his time ; but the character of his 
mission made him averse to the shedding 
of blood by himself unless in self-defence. 
He was, besides, a general benefactor, and 
he knew it, and his fears, therefore, were 
not for himself; for he was ready at any 
time to quit the scene of his earthly labors, 
and render an account of his stewardship. 

On the road the two friends overtook 
the aged negro whom Warden had met in 
the morning, and who now came so sud- 
denly and noiselessly in view that he 
seemed to have dropped from the clouds. 
" I mistrust you, old man," said W T arden s 
" and must handle you a little to see if you 
are a wizard. Tell me, on your life," con- 
tinued he, seizing the negro by the collar, 
" how came you to be dogging me from 
place to place." 

" Because, Master Henry," answered 
old Ben, shedding his aged locks, " these 
here cussed Tories — begging Master Cald- 
well's pardon — these cussed Tories are 
monstratious cunnin, and you aint usin to 
'em. I knowed you'd be strollin about 
the country in broad daylight, and so, I 
thought I'd stroll about some, too, and 
watch.'" 

It appeared that, to protect his young 
master and to scour the country in search 
of news, the faithful servant had covered 
his head with meal, and assumed such a 
disguise that even Henry Warden did not 
know him. He had, during the whole of 
the morning, hovered near the young offi- 
cer, and beneath his venerable coat were 
found a brace of pistols, the gift of his 
master, and a very homely but savage- 
looking dirk. It was easy now to account 
for the singular information to the Tories 
which saved the parson, and Henry War- 
den also understood why he himself was 
asked in the morning which way he was 
going. , 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

WARDEN LEAVEE ALAMANCE AGAIN. 

With all their persuasions, the two 
friends, Warden and Caldwell, could not 
induce Ben Rust to leave his mother's 
house. With a blind obstinacy, he de- 
clared his unalterable purpose of remain- 



82 



ALAMANCE. 



ing where he was, provided his namesake, 
Ben, were permitted to keep him com- 
pany. 

" He shall,'" said Henry Warden, "and 
I will too, in life and in death, if you will 
not leave." 

" No, you won't, my Christin friend," 
replied Rust ; " it won't do for the same 
house to cover us both." 

"How do you meant" asked Warden. 

" I mean," answered Ben, " that though 
you're a good gineral in a regular-built 
continental fight, you don't know nothin 
about the science of Tory tactics. Old 
Ebony here and I have been studyin it for 
years as hard as Julius Cassar, and, I tell 
you, it's so monstrous difficult we've only 
got to spellin, as it were, in three' sylla- 
bles. If you stay here, you'll be in your 
own way and in mine too." 

" I think 1 know enough," said Warden, 
"to be certain that three men are stronger 
than two, and that eight are more than 
twice as many as three." 

" Praps that's true in figures," replied 
Ben ; " but it won't always hold good in 
fightin. I've already got my plans laid, 
and if they fail, old Ebony and I will make 
sure of four, and then there'll be only two 
Whigs gone. If you stay you can't save 
us; and, accordiu to your own calkilation, 
its better to lose two than three. You 
must be off directly it is dark, and I ad- 
vise you to make for the army." 

" Mrs. Rust, at least, must go with us," 
said the parson, " for the Tories maj- do 
her an injury." 

" If they do they'll rue it," answered 
-Major Poll. " I'll fly from my house for 
no such cursed varmints. Here I mean to 
spend this night, trusting to my son and 
my own good rifle, and wo be to the man 
that lays hands on me!" 

The parson and his young friend War- 
den, finding it useless to argue longer with 
the Rusts, and believing it best for them 
to leave, parted from them at dark ; and 
knowing that no search would be made 
that night at Bell's, went directly there. 
They remained but a short time, and be- 
fore the dawn of morning were on the road 
for the head quarters of General Greene. 
Warden, with feelings that cannot be de- 
scribed, found himself again, and for an 
indefinite time, leaving the home of his 
youth. Far different were his feelings 
now from what they had been when, in 
the very morning of his life, he had first 
started to join the defenders of his country. 
Buoyant, then, with hope, and strong in 
the untried energies of mind and body, he 
had gone, forth, confident of an early and 
successful termination of the struggle in 
which he was about to engage, with vis- 
ions of an honourable distinction, and of 
bright rewards of love gleaming in the 
vista of the happy future. He had fought 



— he had bled — he had endured hunger, 
thirst, fatigues, and privations for years; 
and the situation of his country seemed to 
be still more gloomy than ever. He had 
returned to find his only brother dead, his 
home desolate, his mother, and his father, 
and his sister exiles, his friends scattered; 
and she — the chief, the dearest hope of his 
life — she, whose affection was to reward 
him for all his toils — gone forever. As a 
thief in the night, he was now escaping, 
and what was the prospect before him? 
Not fame — its charms had vanished ; not 
love — for it was now a thing of memory 
only ; not a bright and happy home *o greet 
him on his return — for that was gone. For 
what, then, was he going to peril himself? 
He had now learned that hardest of all 
lessons, patiently to submit to the inscru- 
table ways of Providence, and to labour 
without hope, because He has made it our 
duty here. His reverend friend, guessing 
at his thoughts, endeavoured to amuse him 
with wise discourse, touching, with much 
tenderness and delicacy, on the circum- 
stances of Warden's situation, and gently 
leading his mind to a just conception of the 
sublime consolations of the Christian phi- 
losopher — consolations which few expe- 
rience, and which none can appreciate, till 
all the mortal hopes and passions which 
support them have left them, and the pure 
mind, like the. pyramids in the sands of 
Egypt, stands in its now solitary and miked 
majesty, self-relying and self-sustained. 
Conversing on such matters, Warden re- 
marked that he believed he had still about 
him some verses which he had composed 
years ago, and which, as it was now light, 
he would read by his friend's permission. 

"Certainly," said the parson, "1 would 
be pleased to hear them, for I have myself 
been a dabbler in rhymes." 

" 1 was young when 1 wrote them," said 
Warden, " very young, and you must ex- 
cuse the egotism. But here they are : 

'WHEN TIME ITS SILENT WORK HAS 
DONE. 
When time its silent work has done, 

And years have rolled their changes by, 
When, like the early mists, have gone 

The passions from our mental sky ; 
When all the hopes and fears that now _ 

Throw lights and shadows o'er the mind. 
Have vanish'd from the world's stein brow., 

And left it in its bleak outline; 
When cold reality shall rise 

With wither'd iimbs, in sable serge, 
Where now gay phantoms cheat the eyes 

Upon the far horizon's verge ; 
When flowers have faded from the way, 

And all the glitt'ring, laughing band, 
Who made our morning's path so gay. 

Have left us on Life's waste of sand, — 
Where then must look the heart for rest, 

On what firm prop its burdens slay ? 
What then will soothe the aching breast! 

Where will the soul its thirst allay.' 
Oh' then will fall thai, giddy throng 

Who feed on thoughts of vanity, 



ALAMANCE. 



63 



And Life's sad cares for them foo strong, 

Existence will a burden be; 
And panting 'neath a tiresome load 

Of foliies changed to grim despair, 
Their fainting forms will, strew the road, 

Their bootless cries will fill the air! 
Then wilt thou, like yon tireless sun, 

Break from obscuring clouds, my soul, 
'With all thy travelling glories on,' 

And speed thee to thy destined goal ! 
Then mute will be the sland'rer's tongue, 

Vile hate upon itself will p.ey, 
The envious heart, with madness stung, 

Will flv the withering light of day ; 
Whilst thou, self-poised and sell'-sn.'i.ain'd, 

Thy every foeinan put to flip' 1 .., 
Will stride, with all thy Do - -ers unchain'd, 

Still onward in thy ;.uin of light !' " 

" Vz'sy respectable," said the doctor ; 
"but was not the vanity of ambition here 
taking the place of other lighter vanities !" 

"I will not say that it was not," an- 
swered Warden ; " for I know 1 ,had de- 
ceived myself. I trust my eyes are at 
last open, and I see, indeed, that all is 
'vanity of vanities.'" 

" All things earthly are," replied the doc- 
tor ; " there's nothing true but Heaven." 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

" A spirit of health, or goblin damned." 

Hamlet. 

William Glutson and his friends from 
Iris fathers were not without a feeling of 
awe wh^n they entered the old church of 
Alamance on a moonless night. Conscious 
that their intentions were evil, hardened 
as they were in iniquity, they still had a 
superstitious dread of churches and grave- 
yards at night, and, when near them at 
such a time, feared a visitation from some 
terrible inhabitant of the land of spirits. 
They waited some time for the two who 
were with Glutson the day before, and 
•who were by no means anxious to be the 
first aMhe church. These latter came at 
last, and, mustering courage sufficient to 
open a door, called out, with their eyes 
shut, to know if any one were present. 
'They were answered by William Glutson, 
■whom, with his company seated near the 
pulpit, they were bold enough to join. The 
Tories chose to assemble and arrange their 
plans in the house to avoid the keen night 
air, and also, perhaps, to be out of sight 
of the white slabs that gleamed with spec- 
tral lustre in the neighbouring cemetery. 
Still, they were by no means easy in their 
location, and as an occasional blast of 
wind moaned through the doors and rat- 
tled the loose panes of glass in the crazy 
windows, cold shudders ran over them, 
«.nd they pressed more closely together. 
"These fears, however, gradually left them, 
snd they were beginning to swagger and 
tooast of their former exploits, and make 
themselves merry at the expense of their 
expected victims, when suddenly one of 



them exclaimed, " What's that?" There 
is nothing so contagious as terror, and the 
whole band, instantly electrified with fright, 
hr.ddied against each other, while they cast 
fearful glance:: round the v.~«llo of. '-he 
church. They saw nothing but the shad- 
owy ouilines cf the great pillars that sup- 
ported the gallery, and the pulpit that 
looked up near them, vfllrile the sighing 
and rumbling of a slight and fitful breeze 
was the only sound to be heard. 

" It was only the creaking of the doors," 
at length spoke Glutson, with an effort to 
command a careless tone ; " who's afraid 
of an empty old church 1" 

" Tm not afraid of it," said the one who 
had given the alarm, "nor of all its con- 
tents of ghosts and devils. But I am afraid 
of Whigs, when I can't see them ; for they 
might kill me before I know where they 
are. I'm certain I heard one sneeze, and 
all I want is just to see the whites of his 
eyes, and then I'll feel at home." 

Each one, now ashamed at having been 
alarmed, began to bluster and swear; and 
one of them, bolder than his compeers, 
had the daring courage to leave them 
several yards, searching the neighbouring 
pews, and calling on various noted Whigs 
by name to come out and fight like men. 
While he was thus engaged a terrific and 
unearthly scream, wild as the howl of a 
legion of devils, burst over the heads of 
the affrighted Tories, and froze them to 
their seats. Again, wilder and louder, that 
howl rent the air, a light flashed through 
the church, and a hideous and gigantic 
figure, with eyes and teeth of fire, rose 
from the pulpit. At the same time, and 
from the same place, two ghostly figures, 
clad in white shrouds, issued, as it seemed, 
swift as the wind, while a deep, sepulchral 
voice cried out, " Bring the sinners to me, 
their time has come !" 

The astounded Tories, unnerved by their 
fears, dropped their guns, and, muttering 
broken prayers and promises of reforma- 
tion, endeavoured to escape as fast as their 
palsied limbs would carry them, running 
against each other, and falling over chairs 
and benches. The figures in white, emit- 
ting a sulphurous odour, were soon down 
among them, and, seizing three of the fu- 
gitives, bound them with their hands be- 
hind their backs, and placed thin bandages 
over their eyes. The others gained the 
doors, and taking different roads, and aim- 
ing at no particular place, made off at the 
top of their speed, their excited and dis- 
ordered imaginations converting every 
dead tree and phosphoric stump into a 
ghost or goblin, while every rustle among 
the leaves acted as a spur to their jaded 
energies. The three who were taken suf- 
fered themselves, trembling and power- 
less, to be fastened together and led back 
near the pulpit, being able to distinguish 



84 



ALAMANCE. 



only the dim outlines of the terrible being 
above them, the horrors of his face being 
magnified tenfold by the ^indistinctness of 
their vision. One of the v apparitions now 
left them in charge of his ghostly com- 
peer, and immediately the deep voice from 
the pulpit called out, 
" Who are these V 

"Your names are desired," squeaked, in 
shrill and harsh tones, the jailer of the 
Tories. 

They were given as Peter Simmons, 
William Glutson, and Richard Sikes. 
The Voice, solemnly. — " Richard !" 
Sikes. — " Yes, sir, good devil, I hear 
you." 

The Voice.— " Richard! Sinner! thou 
cursed and ungodly youth, call me not 
good. I am the father of evil — the great 
beast with seven heads and ten horns, and 
have come to put you in my wallet, and 
carry you to the lake of fire and brim- 
stone. Don't you see my raw head and 
bloody bones'?" 

Sikes. — "Oh good, merciful gentleman 
devil, please have mercy on me this one 
time, and I'll .never sin anjr more. I never 
hated you nor abused you, like some peo- 
ple, but always defended you, and said 
you were a good Christian and an honest 
man, and that you didn't have a fair chance. 
For G — 's sake let me off now, and I'll 
serve you faithfully." 

A horrid yell, like the laugh of a demon, 
followed this speech, and the Voice con- 
tinued, 

"You've served me already, Richard, 
and that's why I want to take you with 
me. You shall dance with me in the fiery 
furnace, sleep on a red-hot gridiron, and 
drink my health with melted lead.- Schow- 
oo ! won't it be fine'?" 

Sikes. — " Thank you, good devil, thank 
you. I'd rather stay here, if it's the same 
to you. I'm a poor man, and have nobody 
to work for me but myself." 

The Voice, impressively. — " Richard ! 
how came you in such unrighteous com- 
pany }" 

Sikes. — " Squire Gluts6n and his son 
William hired me to work for them, and 
told me the king would thank me for it." 

"You lie! you sneaking villain!" ex- 
claimed William Glutson, beginning to 
entertain strange suspicions. " You silly 
fool, don't you know whose hands you're 
in ]" 

He began to struggle to release him- 
self ; but soon another hand, with an iron 
clutch, had hold of him, and a voice said 
in his ear, " Bill Glutson ! a pistol is at 
your breast, and if you call a name, or 
make another effort to get away, you're a 
dead man. You know me ; submit and 
obey !" 

With this admonition, the Tories were 
led off a few miles, to the heart of a large 



forest, and there Glutson and Sikes (the 
latter of whom had made promises of ref- 
ormation) were firmly secured to separate 
trees. They were now completely blind- 
folded ; while the bandages were taken off 
the eyes of Simmons, and he stripped of 
all his garments but his shirt and panta- 
loons, and these latter rolled and fastened 
above his knees. A sapling, from which 
the limbs had been cut, and the bark taken 
off for some twenty feet from the roots, 
stood by, and, pointing to it, one of his 
keepers thus addressed Simmons : 

" That's what we call the ' Coon's sap- 
lin,' Pete. When you climb to that ere 
limb, jist up there you're a safe coon, and 
may travel. Ebony, keep your gun cocked; 
and now, my Christin friend (turning to 
Simmons), to assist you, I'll tickle your 
legs while you climb. Hangin's the" for- 
feit if you don't git up. So here goes !" 

The Tory, knowing it was no time to 
beg, started up the tree, hugging it with a 
deathlike grasp; but before he had ascend- 
ed far, several keen cuts across his ankles 
with hickory switches, relaxed the press- 
ure of his legs, and dtwn he came. Again 
and again he was forced to make the ex- 
periment, and always with the same re- 
sult, the switches being applied to his 
back, and shoulders with vigour and vi- 
vacity as he started up and came down. 
At length, being entirely exhausted, and 
smarting all over with gashes from which 
the blood was trickling, Simmons begged | 
for mercy. " It's no use cryih," said his 
tormentor ; " one of two things is got to 
be done. You must git to that limb your- 
self, or I and old Ebony must lift you to it 
with a rope round your neck. Which do 
you prefer]" The unfortunate Peter chose 
the former; and, after resting a while, made 
another and final effort. Swift and furious 
came the blows over his back and arms ; 
but these were protected, to some extent, 
by his shirt, and Simmons was climbing 
for his life. His energies seemed to in- 
crease as he went up, and he was six or 
seven feet above the ground when a few 
sharp jerks across his naked feet and an- 
kles brought him rapidly to the earth. 
He was considerably bruised by his hill ; 
and, rendered desperate by his sufferings, 
asked to be hung at once. The penalty 
was, however, remitted, and Simmons was 
again Blindfolded and fastened to a tree. 

It now came Glutson's time to receive 
his dues ; and, accordingly, he was led out, 
his eyes uncovered, and thus addressed: 

" Bill Glutson, your time has come at 
last ! I never thought I would have to do . 
this job ; but you have forced me to it. 
What have you got to say why you should 
not die ?" 

" I've got nothing to say or repent of.'* 
sulkily answered Glutson. 

" Bill, it won't do to be so stout abo«t 



ALAMANCE. 



85 



matters," said the other, " and you know 
it You needn't think, that because I 
spared Pete Simmons, that you, who are 
the greatest sinner of all, will escape. 
Answer me now, on your life : Have you 
viot hired others to rob the patriots 1 Did 
you not assist in beating Esther Bell, as 
she was going to see the sick 1 Did you 
not lay plans to catch preacher. Caldwell, 
and deliver him to the British 1 Did you 
not lay in wait to kill me and Henry War- 
den ] Have you not ordered George War- 
den's fences to be burned — his house rob- 
bed — and assisted in carrying away his 
negroes ?- Did-you not murder my cousin, 
Betsy Deans! Have you -not been a vile 
Tory, opposing your own country, and 
robbing, beating, and murdering its de- 
fenders 1 This is the indictment ; what 
say you to it V 

''■ I'm not bound to answer j^our ques- 
tions," replied Bill, " and you have no 
right to make me." 

"Bill Glutson, I "have told you your 
time is come, and you know I don't break 
ray word. We have played together, Bill, 
gonq to school together, and have known 
each other 'since we were children. I 
never had any ambition against you ; I 
never wished you any harm ; and yet you 
seduced my cousin, promising to 'marry 
her ; and when she got. in a bad way, and 
was heart-broken and threatened to ex- 
pose you, you took her up on your horse, 
telling her you were going to carry her to 
your father's, and marry her ; and when 
you got to little Alamance you. threw her 
in the water and held her under it till she 
was drowned." The speaker and Glutson 
were both affected ; and, after a pause, the 
former continued : " You've also sought 
my life, Bill, and intended to hang me to- 
night. You intended to kill Henry War- 
den, and Esther Bell, and you have led on 
the malignant Tories in all their rascalities. 
You must die ! Kneel down and pray for 
once in your life, for in twenty minutes 
your soul will be in eternity." 

" I cannot pray, now," said Glutson, pit- 
eously ; " give me till to-morrow to think 
over my sins and repent." 

li You'll never see the sun rise again," 
answered his executioner ; " will you pre- 
pare ?-" 

" Give me, then, two hours, for old friend- 
ship's sake, just two hours, and I'll ask no 
more." 

" Will you pray before you* die ]" de- 
manded the person implored. " Come, 
Ebony, he's as ready as he'll ever be. 
Let's make a finish at once." 

" Oh, for G — d's sake, for mercy's sake, 
pity me," cried Glutson, now frantic with 
terror ; i( do not murder me in cold blood. 
It will be murder if you kill me now. You 
may beat me every day, put me in a dun- 
geon, and feed me on bread and water : 



you may have all my property, and all my 
father's. I'll assist you in defending the 
country ; I'll tell you where all the Tories 
hide, and help you to hang them, if you'll 
just let me live. For your own sake, for 
your mother's sake -" 

" Mention not my mother here !" ex- 
claimed the other, " nor my name, or this 
pistol will do the business at once. It 
will not be murder *to hang you; and if it 
was, I have what I consider good authority. 
I ask once more, will you pray V 

" I cannot now ! I cannot for a while ! 
Give me just half an hour." 

" The time's up, and five minutes over," 
was the answer ; " here, Ebony, take the 
end of this rope and fasten it to that limb 
up there." 

The person addressed did as he was bid, 
his coadjutor holding up in his powerful 
arms the trembling and struggling body of 
the Tory. 

" Is it fastened V asked the Whig on the 
ground. 

" Yes, sir, all ready." 

" Bill Glutson, farewell ! and may God 
have mercy on your soul." 

The Tory was about to make an effort 
to speak, but the first word was choked in 
its passage, and his writhing limbs were 
dangling in the air. In a few moments 
the convulsive efforts of his body ceased, 
and a slight tremulous motion indicated 
that the flame of life was flickering in its 
socket, when the rope was cut, and he fell 
heavily and senseless to the earth. 

The binding around his neck was imme- 
diately undone, and such appliances used 
as were calculated to restore his suspend- 
ed animation ; but as he began to give 
signs of returning life, the incoherent words 
which he feebly articulated, and the wild, 
rolling, and vacant stare of his eyes, showed 
that reason had deserted her throne, and 
that his brain was seething with fever and 
delirium. He evidently thought himself 
in the abodes of the damned, and that the 
giant trees around him were the monstrous 
and shageless tenants of those dismal re- 
gions. His father's house was not far off, 
and thitherward he was carried by one of 
his executioners, entreating him to drive 
off the ghost of Betsy Deans. After pla- 
cing him in the yard, the Whig returned for 
his companion and his prisoners, and, ap- 
proaching to within a few hundred yards 
of Glutson's mansion, its tenants were 
roused from their slumbers by a succes- 
sion of savage howls, and beheld, with 
speechless terror, the awful visitant ol 
the flaming eyes and teeth. At the same 
time a fierce and terrible voice pro- 
claimed, 

" Wo, wo to thee, Nathan Glutson ! You 
are a murderer, a swindler, and a thief; a 
liar, a hypocrite, and a villain ! Your sins 
are all known to me, and soon I'll call 



8G 



ALAMANCE. 




to settle your account ! Repent, for ven- 
geance is at nana :" : 

The house of Glutson became a scene 
of lamentation and wretchedness. The 
tales of cthcrc, the evidence ox ins own 
senses, and the condition of his son — the 
pride and hope of his house — satisfied Na- 
than that an avenging spirit had been 
abroad. William became a raving maniac, 
and seemed to be tormented by furies, till 
at last his malady became so frightful that 
no one could bear to be in his presence. 
A fierce and incurable fever preyed on 
him night and day, and the phantoms of 
his stricken conscience, in the shape of 
hideous demons, mocked at his sufferings, 
till at last he wasted away, and went to 
realize those untold and unimagined hor- 
rors of which he had here a faint foretaste. 
These events put afloat a thousand rumours 
at Alamance. Many of the Tories believed 
that the evil one had been made visible 
among them, while some very pious old 
ladies among the Whigs devoutly thanked 
the Almighty for answering their prayers, 
in sending to them an angel of deliverance. 
The shrewd patriots held their peace, and 
Esther Bell and Anne Warden cautioned 
Black Dan never to let his prisoner, Sim- 
mons, into the secrets of the huge gourd 
with teeth and eye-holes, and which, with 
a lighted candle in it, looked so terrible at 
night. Dan treasured the gourd as the 
gift of a friend, kept his prisoner close, 
and, occasionally, at night, assisted by 
his fellow-servants, exercised him at the 
"Coon's saplin." Amid all the specula- 
tions among the unknowing ones at Ala- 
mance, two things were reduced to cer- 
tainties, namely, that the two Bens and 
Dick Sikes had disappeared, and that the 
Whigs, for a season at least, had rest from 
their enemies. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

" Whoever has been once on the sand- 
hills of North Carolina will not forget 
them soon. The country is not hilly, as 
the term applied to it would seem to indi- 
cate ; but an unbroken plain stretches round 
the whole horizon, and the face of the 
earth, never clothed with verdure, and thin- 
ly covered with leaves, gleams like the 
desolation of perpetual snow. Still, it has 
its beauties and its attractions peculiar to 
itself, and which endears it to the dwellers 
there. There are occasional mounds of 
drifted sand to relieve the monotony of the 
plain; near its streams the air is laden 
with the fragrance of delicious flowers, 
and at all seasons the evergreen still wears 
its summer robes. Nature seems ever to 
be in a state of soft repose, and the hazy 
atmosphere invites to that dreamy listless- 
ness, that middle ground between the hard 



realities of life and the wild phantoms 
cf :l?°p, cc pIcTvSaiii and soothing to the 
contemplative mint.. Th p crowni'v- £■•}- 
r y cf «'.io country, nowever, is its forest of 
pine. There are no thickets of brush- 
wood, no tangled webs of vide, no dwarfs 
nor misshapen woody monsters in this no- 
ble family of trees. Grouped in squares, 
circles, parallelograms, and an endless va- 
riety of fanciful figures, they rise high and 
straight from the earth, some with the 
stately grace of matrons, and others with 
the elegant symmetry and lighter propor- 
tions of youthful maidens, while the long 
and slender leaves that, like dishevelled 
hair, depend in rich luxuriance from their 
neatly-rounded summits, justify the figure 
used. Few birds are seen among them ; 
and had Ovid told us that to these, and not 
to poplars, the Heliades were changed, the 
constant moan heard in their midst might 
well be taken for the endless wail of the 
sisters for their rash brother Phaeton." 

Thus, with his usual felicitous style, 
does the master begin the second volume 
of his notes, and introduces us upon a new 
scene of action. In one of these groves, 
and not far from the ancient village of 
Cross Creek, now the town of Fayetteville, 
there, was a noted spring, visible a long 
way off by the green grass that fringed it3 
waters. Close by the spring was a circu- 
lar mound, with perpendicular sides, about 
ten feet high, and one hundred and fifty- 
yards in circumference. It was ascended 
by steps cut in several places and covered 
with seats of plank, which were fastened 
in the sides of the stately pines. This 
place was often resorted to in summer 
and autumn by parties of pleasure, and 
was called " The Lover's Knowe," from, 
the fact of its being a famous trysting- 
place, and the scene of many a courtship. 
Incidents of this sort had given a name to 
every locality on and about the terrace. 
There was, for instance, a small tree called 
" Sandy's Hope," because the mistress of 
one Sandy Cunningham had listened en- 
couragingly to his suit,. while with a pen- 
knife she was trimming the pine, then a 
mere twig. " Walker's Nose," was a largo 
root, on which one Angus Walker sat 
at the feet of his lady-love \vhen s^ia put 
his proboscis out of joint, or, in other 
words, discarded him ; and " The Stane- 
Bane" was a rock where angry lovers 
retired to quarrel and settle their difficul- 
ties. Not far froin this latter, and just on 
the western edge of the mound, was a 
place called " The Kelpy's Seat," a name 
which it held even within the recollection 
of a Scotch lady who is yet in the prime 
of life. It was so called because it was 
the favourite seat of one who, for a short 
while, mingled in the society of that 
region, and who formed few acquaintan- 
ces and still fewer intimacies there. Al 



A L AM A N C E. 



67 



all Jhe parties, by daylight or moonlight, 
£t ihi* T/uroi-'o |Tnowp.. the stranger sat still 
and silent on that seat; and even when 
music and the dance put nfe and motion 
into the oldest, that stranger still sat mute 
and sad, gazing at the far horizon, or look- 
ing up through the boughs of the leafy 
trees at the full orbed moon, or at some 
distant and lonely star. Tartans, plaids, 
and plumes, though new to her, excited 
little interest, and equally were neglected 
the wild strains of bagpipes and harps. 
She was usually dressed in deep mourning, 
and as she would sit with her head thrown 
back against the tree, at whose roots was 
the seat, her hands crossed upon her lap, 
and the moon beaming full in her pale and 
upturned face, she seemed an ethereal per- 
sonation of that profound, tender, and 
nameless sorrow which sometimes dwells 
in the breasts of earth's finest mould. She 
came mysteriously into the country ; her 
conduct and manners were mysterious, 
and her history a mystery. All knew that. 
she was beautiful as an angel, meek as a 
saint,, inoffensive as a dove ; yet whence 
she came and what her business, were 
things known only to a few. Great curi- 
osity was of course excited, but specula- 
tion exhausted itself, and the strange maid- 
en was still wrapped in obscurity. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

On a pleasant evening, late in autumn, 
the strange lady and a female companion of 
about the same age were sitting on the 
Lover's Knowe. The stranger, clad in 
mourning weeds, was gazing, sad and ab- 
stracted, on the northwestern horizon, 
while her companion, whose light eyes, 
flaxen hair, and short plaid dress displayed 
the Scotchwoman, kept np a continual 
humming conversation, seemingly but lit- 
tle concerned whether she had a listener 
i or not. 

" And ye'U be glowar'n at the west till ye 
stare yer e'enoot, I am thinking,"' at length 
said the latter, with some impatience. 

" I must beg your pardon, Nannie," said 
the other, " for not paying better attention 
to your tales of fairies and kelpies. My 
heart, you know, is far distant from here, 
and I was just now fancying myself in my 
former happy home." 

" And is na my heart in the heelands o' 
bonny Scotland, which I maun never see 
again 1" answered Nannie Scott; "and are 
not all my kith and kindred in the auld kirk- 
yard there, and I a puir, lone lassie wi' nei- 
ther friends nor waurldly gear? An' yet 
I am as blithe as the mavis in spring." 

'•The linnet would have been more 
proper, Nannie, for you sing your sweet- 
est notes in the gloomiest weather. But 



how can you say you have no friends, 
when you are among your own peoole, 
and every Doay is Kina 10 you' My c'^se 
;5 entirety aifferenl, and I nave no friend 
here." 

" And am I not your friend, dear ladie?" 
asked Nannie. " It's true, I am a puir, kin- 
tra haverel, but I hae a douce and feekfu' 
heart, and ane that's true to you." 

"And so, indeed, you have, my friend," 
replied Edith Mayfield, " and I am sorry 
you misunderstood me. From the time I 
met with you at that odious place of Glut- 
son's, you have ever been kind and true to 
me ; and, but for you, I know not what 
should have become of me. On your 
faithful bosom I rely as on a sister's." 

" An' yet," said Nannie, " ye would gang 
an' leave me this very een, an' ye could 
have yer ain way anent the matter." 

" It is not you I wish to leave," answered 
Edith, " but these hateful people. As you 
know — for I have already told you— -I was 
stolen away against my will. You saw 
that when they forced me into the carriage 
with you that night at Glutson's. Ross 
has stolen me away from my parents and 
my home, and put me under the care of 
his old aunt, who, as you know, watches 
me strictly, and does nothing but ding-dong 
me day and night about her relation. They 
expected to wean me from Alamance and 
all its memories, and that my dislike to Ross 
would finally give way ; but it has grown 
stronger and stronger, and they have found 
that a thousand years of confinement would ' 
not bend me to their purposes. They have, 
therefore, I do believe, resolved to force 
me, and it was to talk with you on this 
very subject that I brought you here. I 
must escape ; I must leave this very week, 
or be ruined forever. And why should 
you not go with me? I observed the 
roads as we came along — I have talked 
with old Duncan, the piper, and believe he 
will assist us. These are my plans ■" 

" Whisht, hiney ! is na that Alan Ross?" 

The person named was just in sight; 
and, soon coming to where the ladies were, 
Nannie Scott withdrew to the farther side 
of the knowe, though Edith entreated her 
not to quit her side. " A favorable omen, 
ma chere amie, a favorable omen !" ex- 
claimed Ross, gayly. " 1 came on a mes- 
sage of love, and I find you at the Lover's 
Knowe, and your attendant leaves you at 
my approach. May the god of eloquence 
inspire my tongue to speak worthily the 
tale you seem disposed to hear!" 

" You are mistaken, sir,'' said Edith, "if 
you suppose you can say but one thing 
that is pleasant to me. It was not by my 
will that my friend left my side, or that I 
see you to-day. Would to God our meet- 
ings depended on my choice !" 

" In that case, fair lady, the light of your 
glorious beauty would be hid from the 



88 



ALAMANCE. 



eyes of your most devoted friend. But, 
thank Heaven, wilful woman cannot al- 
ways have her way ; and it is well for her 
that she cannot. I have no doubt that, 
if it were left to you, you would refuse 
an offer which I am now going to make, 
and which all the world would say is for 
your benefit." 

Edith made no reply ; but, turning her 
averted eyes upon him, he continued : " I 
have at length hit upon a proposition that 
ought to be agreeable to you, for it will 
save your life and ensure your happiness." 

The speaker again paused ; but Edith ex- 
pressing no curiosity, he went on : "You 
seem to have so little confidence in me, 
that you will not even deign to enquire 
what I mean. Well, I will tell you at 
once, and you will see if I was not right 
for once. Your health is declining — Henry 
Warden is dead, as 1 have long ago proved 
to you by his neighbors, William Glutson, 
and others — and you will linger out in 
America a wretched life, and perhaps fill 
an early grave." 

" Oh, merciful God, grant that it may be 
so!" exclaimed Edith, passionately, -the 
tears filling her eyes. " Oh, grant that I 
may soon rest by his side, and my soul be 
with his in heaven ! Base man, when you 
brought this news before, you forced from 
me the most sacred secret of my heart. I 
told you then, and I tell you now, that the 
ashes of Henry Warden dead, are dearer 
to me than all the living world besides, 
» and never, never shall I quit the country 
where they repose ! I ask you again, if 
you have yet one spark of honour in you, 
to speak of him no more to me, and I beg 
you to leave me — oh leave me, for a while 
at least !" And so saying, she covered her 
face with her hands and wept bitterly. 

Ross strode over the terrace till her grief 
had abated, and, returning to her, sat down 
at her feet, and, in mild and gentle tones, 
asked her pardon for the unhappy allusion. 
" Edith," continued he, " I have told you, 
and you know my history. I have told 
you that till I came to America, I had a 
ruling passion which excluded all thoughts 
of love. That, from my childhood, I pas- 
sionately longed for the restoration o'f the 
Stuarts ; that, young as I was, I fought un- 
der Cameron on the disastrous field of 
Culloden, and that I afterwards shared the 
exile of Charles Edward in France ; that 
my estates, my father dying, were confis- 
cated, and that a reward was set upon my 
head. I have now something else to tell 
you, and I beg you to give me your undi- 
vided attention. I have heard happy news 
from Europe. Our gracious sovereign, at 
the solicitation of my friends, has been 
pleased to pardon me, and to restore to 
me my inheritance, and it is not a small 
one. I am going soon to take possession 
of it, and with me will return my aunt and 



several other Highland families of distinc- 
tion. I have prepared a deed giving* you 
one-third of my estate, and it will support 
you in that rank and station which you are . 
entitled to hold. Your health — your spirits 
demand a change of climate and a change 
of scenery. You will see great cities and 
a great people ; you will be treated as a 
daughter and sister by a large and power- 
ful connection ; you will move in a society 
more polished and refined than the best in 
America, and you shall be mistress of 
yourself, and never shall I mention love to 
you until all traces of grief have left your 
heart, and you are the gayest of the gay. I 
ask you only to go with us, and leave this 
miserable desert country, where there is 
no society, and where you are so entirely 
unsphered. What a brilliant star would 
you make at court!" 

" Mr. Ross," answered Edith, " I haye 
listened as you desired, and the respect 
which I have paid to your proposition will 
show that I can yet think you a gentle- 
man, notwithstanding the injuries and in- 
sults you have heaped upon me. You 
must not, however, be deceived by my 
mildness. What I say now- I say in earn- 
est, and I will never change my mind. 
With my own consent I will never leave 
my parents, I will never accept a present 
of the smallest value from you, nor will-' 
I ever leave America alive, even though 
my parents and all my kindred were dead. 
If 1 had not even the canker at my heart 
— if there were here no relics sacred to 
me, I will not leave my country. Our 
people are plain and simple, it is true ; our 
country is yet rough, and comparatively a 
wilderness, and a terrible war is now ra- 
ging over it ; but, sir, it is the land of the 
free ! and more charming to me would be 
the most savage wilds, where none but 
freemen dwell, than all the splendours, 
luxuries, and pleasures of the most mag- 
nificent court in. the gorgeous East!" 

" A traitress, by Heaven !" exclaimed 
Ross, smiling. " I have heard of such 
language among the American dames, but 
I never dreamed that one so young could 
preach it with such a flashing eye ! Lady, 
I know whence those sentiments were in- 
spired ; and when I tell you you must for- 
get the teacher and his lessons, I flatter 
myself that I do but repeat your father's 
instructions." 

" It ill becomes you to quote my father 
to me," answered Edith ; " and his name, 
I should think, ought to fill you with re- 
morse. I owe my father obedience. I 
love him, and have and would serve him 
with devoted tenderness : but he has no 
control over my conscience ; and as to my 
soul, God, who gave it, has inspired it with 
a passionate love of liberty. I know that 
my country is engaged in a glorious strug- 
gle. I know my countrymen are in the 









ALAMANCE. 



89 



right, and I pray daily to Heaven for their 
success. I reverence the great and good 
men who are spending themselves in the 
just cause. I look on them as the best 
patriots the world has ever seen, and I be- 
lieve their names will be held in everlast- 
ing remembrance !" 

"I am a loyal subject' of his majesty 
George the Third, whom God long pre- 
serve !" said Ross; "but I care little for 
these disputes about liberty. I can see 
that you are now carried away, as I once 
was, by a sublime abstraction; and you 
must permit me to say it is a most un- 
profitable passion. I have forsaken bully 
Mars, and henceforth I am for the soft 
pleasures of a more mighty god. Lady ! 
dear, dear lady ! I love you with a pure 
qnd single devotion ! Here, at your feet, 
-kneels one who never bent t<\ beauty be- 
fore, and here I offer you all the boundless 
affection of a heart that has ever been true 
to its friends, and a name that the breath 
of dishonour has never tainted. You have 
enthralled my soul! In your smile only 
can I live, and you would I ever cherish 
with unspeakable tenderness and affection. 
Oh! in the name of all you hold dear on 
earth, pity, pity, I beseech you, the sup- 
plicant who now humbles himself before 
you ! Have you not a woman's heart 1 
Have you not a portion of our common 
nature 1 Can you, with relentless cruelty, 
consign me to that despair, compared with 
which the pangs of death are light 1 Sure- 
ly, oh ! surely you cannot hate me — surely 
you are yet kind enough to pity the most 
miserable wretch on earth !" 

Edith, moved to tears, bade her kneeling 
lover to rise, or she would instantly leave 
him. " I have told you,' 1 she continued, 
" I cannot love you, and that I will never, 
never give my hand without my heart. 
Pity I can and do feel for you, who never 
felt pity for me. Let me appeal to you as 
you have done to me ; let me appeal to 
your honour, to your generosity, to your 
humanity. Repair the wrong you have 
done to me- and to my parents. Restore 
me to them and I will not hate you ; I will 
thank you, and esteem you as a friend. I 
will forgive all the past ; I will never speak 
to you harshly again ; I will beg my pa- 
rents to forgive you ; and in all that I can, 
consistently with my honour and my hap- 
piness, I will serve you, and I will even 
pray for your happiness." 

" Edith," said Ross, solemnly, " I seek 
supreme bliss : you desire, at best, a short- 
lived satisfaction — 

■ ' There is a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them as we will.' \ 

I should have said a destiny, and no one 
can resist his destiny. When I first saw 
you I was plotting no ill against you ; 
when I fell in love, it was not by my own 



consent. Love is an involuntary and over- 
mastering passion, and it enslaved me 
while I was on other business. I cannot 
help it ; and as self-preservation is the 
first law of Nature, I must attend first to 
my own happiness. You are as dear to 
me as my own heart's blood, and yet, for 
that very reason, I must insist on your 
doing what you dislike. You must blame 
the Fates, not me. Still, I believe I know 
better than yourself what is for your own 
happiness, and I thoroughly believe I am 
consulting it. All ladies are whimsical, 
and you are now especially so. Your 
mind is clouded by morbid humours, and 
you persist wilfully in seeking your own 
destruction. It must not be. I must save 
you, and save myself, and I will do it." 

"What do you mean, Mr. Ross"' cried 
Edith, rising to her feet ; " I do not under- 
stand you." 

" You will soon, fair lady !" replied he, 
also rising, and proudly pacing over the 
mound. Edith stood gazing at him in 
much bewilderment, until he at length ap- 
proached her, and, drawing himself to his 
full height, said, slowly: "I have humil- 
iated myself. Fool that I was, I have • 
been too complaisant to the whims of 
woman, and suffered her to scorn me'and 
trample on my heart ! I am myself again : 
to-morrow night you too shall be* your- 
self, and you shall be mine ! Adieu !" Be- 
fore she could speak he was gone. 

"Did I not tell you so, Nannie," ex- 
claimed Edith, weeping, and wringing her 
hands ; " the base wretch intends to force 
me to-morrow night." • 

" Djinna fear, dear lady, dinna fear but 
the Lord will provide," said her compan- 
ion, with the confidence of her race in. 
supernatural agencies. 

" But God does not work by miracles, 
Nannie ; and if you do not devise some 
plan for me, I'm sure He will work no 
miracle in favour of a miserable creature 
like me." 

" He has afore now," answered Nannie, 
"helpit mony a puir, forfairn lassie in the 
very bit o' time when their case was maist 
fearful. What says the Psalmist, ' Surely 
he shall deliver thee from the snare of 
the fowler.' " The two friends, unable to 
come to any conclusion, returned to their 
residence at Aunt Ross's, laying many 
schemes on the road, and abandoning each 
as soon as it was formed. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

Nannie Scott was a distant connection 
of the Rosses ; and, having lost her parents 
when a girl, had been raised by the aunt 
of Alan Ross, with whom she now resided. 
This aunt was the confident of Ross, ami 



©0 



ALAMANCE. 



had sent Nannie with him. to Alamance, to 
S.C. as a companion to Edith Mayfield, 
Krher. ihai iaay was noaticik'd. Edith and 

Nannie became intimate on the road ; they 
were lodged in the same room at Aunt 
Ross's, and were inseparable friends and 
companions. The Scotch girl, though of 
a grateful disposition, had little reason for 
thinking herself under obligations to the 
people with whom she lived, more in the 
capacity of a servant than that of a mem- 
ber of the family. She was, therefore, 
not disposed to assist in their attempt on 
her friend, to whom she was now much 
attached, and whose deliverance from her 
present position she sincerely desired. On 
the night, therefore, following the inter- 
view at the Lover's Knowe, Edith and 
Nannie discussed between them many 
plans for the escape of the former, but no 
feasible one seemed to offer. The latter 
told many stories of happy and providen- 
tial escapes made by distressed maidens, 
which she had heard when she was "a 
wee bit lassie;" and the former, at last de- 
voutly commended herself to Heaven and 
fell asleep. When she awoke the sun was 
already up, and her companion gone. The 
family, as muchastonished as Edith at Nan- 
nie's absence, would not believe but what 
the former knew where she was, and that 
some scheme for an escape was on foot. 
Edith was watched closely during the day, 
and saw, by the preparations going on, 
that she was certainly to be married on 
the approaching night. She had a faint 
hope that her friend might yet save her; 
but, with the suspicions natural to those 
who have been persecuted, she finally be- 
gan to fear that, even Nannie was against 
her, and had left on purpose to be out of 
the way. As the day advanced, these sus- 
picions were confirmed; and, giving her- 
self up for lost, she threw herself on her 
bed, and there remained weeping till some 
females came to prepare her for the cere- 
mony. Without assisting or resisting, she 
permitted them to array her in bridal cos- 
iame and lead her out. When she saw 
present only a few friends of the family, 
and a young and sinister-looking minister, 
her heart failed her, and she fainted. Up 
to this time a faint hope had still shone in 
her breast ; she still cherished a vague ex- 
pectation of deliverance. She saw at once 
the awful reality of her position ; her 
senses reeled, and it was long before her 
suspended animation was restored. When 
it was, she was again brought into the room 
where the company was waiting, and was 
held on her feet by one of her maids. 
Her whole life now rapidly passed in re- 
view before her. She remembered her 
apparent cruelty to Henry Warden, and, 
magnifying the enormily of her conduct, 
she persuaded herself that her punishment 
was just! With this belief she became 



more composed, took her place by Ross^ 
and the ceremony commenced. "Edith 

" Hold i not another wora !" shouted a 
travel-stained woman who darted into the 
room ; and, rushing between Edith and 
Ross, stood confronting the minister. 

" Who is this wild woman V asked the 
astonished preacher ; " let her be taken 
hence." 

" Who am I ?" cried the new-comer ; 
"look at me, unholy man, and see if you 
have forgotten Flora M' Donald !" At the 
sound'of this name the company stared at 
each other, and Flora went on : " Little 
did I think, Alan Ross, that a kinsman of 
mine would ever disgrace the proud name 
he bears by such an unmanly deed ! But 
there is no time to talk ; show us a room, 
Mother Ross, for the lady has fainted in 
my arms !" 

When Edith recovered she was in Tier 
own room, and Nannie Scott was bending 
over her with the most anxious solicitude. 
She would have Nannie tell her immedi- 
ately how she came to he saved; but her 
friend told her to be easy for the present, 
and wait for the return of her protectress. 
This latter remained with the family till 
all retired moodily to rest, and then stole 
softly to the apartment of Edith. 

" My young friend," said she, as she 
came in, "if you are able, give directions 
to Nannie to get your clothes ready; for 
you must be off while they think you are 
yet unable to move." 

" I shall give no directions," answered 
Edith, "till I know what has happened. 
How came I to find in you a friend ?" 

" I had seen you, and suspected some- 
thing was wrong," replied Flora, " and to- 
day my suspicions were confirmed. It is 
a long distance from here to my house, 
and yet your friend there walked it alone 
by noon, and told me all your story." 

" My dear, dear friend, indeed," exclaim- 
ed Edith, embracing Nannie. 

" Time presses," said Flora, " and you 
must thank her hereafter. My husband 
was not at home ; but I instantly got. ready, 
and, furnishing Nannie with a horse, we 
hurried hither. On the way we fell in 
with a company of three men, two white 
and one black ; and the leader, who. was a 
very odd sort of a man, made many enqui- 
ries about the road to this place. I was 
in doubt what to do, fearing that they 
might be confederates of Alan Ross. To 
try them, I therefore remarked that I sup- 
posod they were going there to the wed- 
ding to-night. I was eagerly asked what 
wedding, *and replied that you were to be 
married to Alan Ross at such an hour. 
" No she won't, by the eternal G— d, if you 
will show me the way !" exclaimed the 
leader. I was satisfied by the honesty of 
his look and manner, and, revealing to 



ALAMANCE. 



91 



him my business, he candidly told me his, 
which was, to carry you to Alamance ; and 
he is r.ovv' waiting for yoa at the errd of 
the Ian ." 

Edith felt a new life swelling within her 
heart ; but then came the sad reflection, 
"Alas! 1 shall not see him!" She half 
trusted that he might yet be alive, and 
that he was at the head of the plans laid 
for her rescue. She enquired, therefore, 
eagerly for the names of the Alamancers. 

"I. asked them for their names," replied 
Flora, " and -the leader said it might not be 
prudent. He called the black Ben — fre- 
quently quoted some one he calls Old 
Proximus, and told me to give you his re- 
spects viva voce.'" 

'■ Ben Rust, as I live, 1 ' shouted Edith, 
jumping up, and hurriedly assisting Nan- 
nie Scott. 

" I had like to have forgotten a mes- 
sage the negro sent you," continued Flora 
M'Donald, after a pause. " He desired me 
to say to you that it was all a lie about 
Master Henry's death, and " 

"Oh, God! I thank thee!" exclaimed 
Edith, and she swooned in the arms of her 
friends. Flora M'Donald suspected a se- 
cret, but she said nothing. Edith, however, 
as soon as she could speak, threw her 
arms around the neck of her deliverer, 
and, kissing her fervently, said, " My more 
than mother, you shall see how happy you 
have made me. I will tell you what I 
never told mortal before, while I thought 
he was alive :" and hereupon she gave a 
brief sketch of her connection with Henry- 
Warden. Flora shed tears, and, feeling 
herself more than paid, hastened her young 
friends to leave the house. It was now 
Nannie's turn to weep, and she lingered on 
the threshold, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. When they arrived at the place 
where they were expected, Rust shed the 
first tears that had moistened his eyes for 
years, and old black Ben blubbered' like a 
child. 

" Nannie Scott," said Flora, at length, " it 
is the last opportunity I shall have of giv- 
ing you some token of the high esteem in 
which I have held your many virtues. Ac- 
cept that horse which you rode, and keep 
him in remembrance of me." 

The poor girl could say nothing; but 
Rust spoke for her, and declared that the 
animal should be called Flora M'Donald 
till the day of his death, and that -he should 
be buried with military honours. Ben then, 
forgetting his accustomed caution, pro- 
posed three cheers for Flora, and it was 
with much difficulty she could prevent him 
from carrying out his purpose. " Well, 
well, my beautiful Christin friend," said he, 
" when we git to Alamance, and the wars 
are over, I'll git the whole country together 
and give you three sich everlastin jo vers 
as were never heern before." 



Edith promised to write to Flora, and 
begged her to signify in what way she 
could shew her ur.bounueu g^at'tuiae. 

-• When I return home," said FIb:*«, "I 
will let you know where to write, and 
would be glad to hear your future history. 
I believe — I almost know — you will be 
happy yet with him to whom you have 
been so devoted. • I ?sk only that, when 
you are at home, and among your own 
people, you will act a? a sister to Nannie 
Scott, remembering that you yourself were 
once a stranger among a strange people, 
and that you will sometime? remember and 
think kindly of Flora M'Donald." 

The Alamancers, with Nannie Scott, 
now left for home, Ben Rust thinking it 
prudent not now to divulge to Edith May- 
field the death of her father. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE COUNTRY INN. 

When the Alamancers, under the com- 
mand of Captain Cornelius Demijohn, 
parted from Henry Warden, they joined a 
company of Whigs, with whom they took 
part in the battle of King's Mountain. The 
master has much to say in regard to that 
engagement, and relates, with great mi- 
nuteness, and in a lively style, some very 
entertaining and surprising incidents con- 
nected therewith. The course which our 
history has assumed compels us, with 
much reluctance, to pass over these events 
and proceed with those matters immedi- 
ately connected with the persons whose 
desthry the reader is impatient to know. 
After the battle alluded to, Uncle Corny 
was no longer able to restrain his impa- 
tient desire to see the widow Powell, 
whose memory rendered sacred to him 
every foot of earth in South Carolina. 
The master, in compliance with a former 
promise, agreed to accompany his enam- 
oured friend, and the Alamancers separ- 
ated. As neither of the gentlemen was a" 
cavalier, Corny and his friend were totally 
unsphered by being mounted, the former 
on a lean, draggle-tailed pony, whose back 
swayed beneath its ponderous weight as 
if it would break in the middle, while the 
latter received practical instruction in the 
original mode of churning butter on the 
back of a tall, gaunt, and hungry-looking 
animal. 

The captain, with the wish of every 
lover for the annihilation of time and 
space, made frequent and furious digs at 
the flanks of his steed, his armed boot heel3 
clanging together under its weasel-shaped 
belly, and hurried on unmindful of the suf- 
ferings of M'Bride, whose old roan had a 
gait compounded of every possible motion 
except that of a direct horizontal progres- 
sion. Nothing was said, Demijohn being 



as 



ALAMANCE. 



busy with his own fancy, while Hector j 
M'Bride kept pressing his hands upon the 
pommel of his saddle to create, as far as 
possible, a diversion in favour of the main 
point of contact between himself and his j 
horse. In this way they arrived at an inn, 
or grocery, upon the roadside, and stopped 
to refresh themselves. The landlord was 
a fortunate character, who, by asking no 
questions and answering none, managed 
to carry on a flourishing business during 
all the troubles of the times, and was pat- 
ronized by Whigs, British,- and Tories. 
While the travellers were here resting 
themselves, there came up a roving Geor- 
gian, a sallow, lank, and bilious-looking 
customer, whose hat, to use a modern 
phrase, was extremely " seedy," and whose 
threadbare dress would have been comfort- 
ably cool during the dog-days, in any other 
climate except that where the fashionable 
summer costume is said to be a shirt col- 
lar and a pair of spurs. He immediately 
called for a drink, and, taking his glass in 
his hand, announced himself as " John 
Nipper in perticler," a gentleman at large, 
who was ready to make the acquaintance 
of any good fellow, and who could " out- 
run, out-jump, and stick his nose farther 
in the ground than any man on this side of 
Jerico." Having swallowed his brandy, 
he turned, with a patronizing air, to the Al- 
amancers, arid desired to know if they 
wished for any sport. 

" We are not sportsmen," answered the 
master; whereat. John Nipper in perticler 
looked most particularly hard at him, sur- 
veying him from head to foot, and from 
foot to head, and back again. 

" Well, friends," said he at length, in 
compassionate tones, " I'm sorry for you, 
and the best we can do is to take a drink. 
Fill three glasses, landlord ; and now, as 
we're all ready, I wish to propose a toast. 
First, here's to ourselves, individually and 
collectively ; secondly, here's to you and 
towards you, if I hadn't 'ave seed you 
I wouldn't 'ave knowed you ; and, third- 
ly, and lastly, here's to the widow Pow- 
ell !" 

" I shall not drink that toast, sir, in such 
company !" said Corny, throwing down his 
glass with violence. 

" I say you must drink it, though," re- 
plied John. 

" And I say I will not drink it," retorted 
Corny. 

" Yes, but you must, old Snuffiebags. , ' , 

" Yes, but I won't, puppy, dog, knave, 
villain !" 

" Wall, them's hard terms you use, old 
friend," answered John Nipper, "but I at- 
tribute it all to your ignorance of the En- 
glish language. Now I'll prove to you why 
you ought to drink the toast: aint you 
fond of good horse-flesh V 

" Not particularly." 



" But don't you like a clean-legged, high- 
blooded, mettlesome nag, that goes like a 
bird a-flym?" 

" I can't say but I prefer a more gentle 
animal," answered Corny; "but what has 
this to do with the toast ?" 

" Adzactly, and now I'll bring you to the 
pint. I knowed, as soon as I saw you, 
what kind of a crittur suited you. You 
want a good-natered, kind-conditioned, 
soft-goin animal that'll love and respect 
you, and that's easy to git on and off of,, 
don't you?" 

"Such a one would suit." 

" And if it's a mare it will do V 

" Certainly." 

" Good!" shouted John; "now the widow 
Powell is jist sich a crittur, for John Nip- 
per in perticler has tried her long enough 
to know." 

" You scurvy knave ! you foul-mouthed 
puppy ! you lying scoundrel ! say agaiu'lhat 
the widow Powell is a mare, and I'll hew 
you into shavings !" 

" Jemini, Jerusalem ! Stranger, I've heern 
tell of men bewitched, and who couldn't 
tell a black sheep from the devil ; but I 
never before saw one who couldn't tell a 
hoss from a human bein. If you aint a 
born nateral then Tin d d ! I say, land- 
lord, whar did he come from !" 

The individual in question, as well as 
Hector M'Bride, seeing the mistake, ex- 
plained matters to the satisfaction of thf 
parties, and they all adjourned into tire 
yard to see John's nag. 

" Walk up, gentlemen," cried John, " walk 
up and see for yourselves. Aint them pas- 
terns clean and nice 1 Did you ever see sich 
a head and sich eyes afore ■? She's not per- 
fection, is she, nor the cream of Tartary, 
nor the rose of Sharon and the lily of the 
valley'? No, no, she aint none of these, 
nor she aint a dove, nor a lamb, nor a hu- 
man crittur'? Nor she aint gentle and 
'knowin, and lovin neither: here, Sally, 
follow me." 

With this he threw the bridle over her 
head, and, running round the house, she fol- 
lowed him, wheeling when he wheeled, and 
keeping close at his heels as he muttered 
to himself: " No, no, Sally, you can't talk, 
nor sing, nor read and write and cipher. 
You're not high-larned, Sally, and never 
went to school ; but the way you can 
think is a sin !" With this John mounted, 
and, putting her into a rapid motion, ex- 
claimed : " This is what I call the Gor-g-y 
step ! I could go to sleep here in five 
minutes by the watch, and never wake till 
she stopped. If you had the rheumatiz in 
all your bones, the lumbago in your back, 
and a side-ache, and a head-ache, and 
tooth-ache, you'd rather be on Sally's back 
than on the softest feather bed. If you 
would'nt, darn my soul!" I 

" Friend," said Demijohn, " I have ttle 






ALAMANCE. 



93 



confidence in what you say, but I -want 
that nag." 

" You can't git her," responded John, 
emphatically. 

"But I must have her; so there is no 
use for any more of your foolery." 

John alighted ; and, taking Uncle Corny 
by the arm, walked off a few yards, and 
then, looking him seriously in the face, 
asked, " Are you the Treasurer of the 
United States'?" 

"No." 

" May be you're Gineral Washington V 

" No, I am not Washington." 

" Praps you're Lord Cornwallis V 

" I tell you I am a plain captain of mili- 
tia," answered Demijohn, impatiently, " and 
I want your nag." 

" You can't git her, capting," replied 
John Nipper in perticler; "the price would 
break you, and wouldn't / be called to ac- 
count for it 1 for bringing you to poverty, 
your wife -to want, and makin your little 
children beggars. No, no ; John Nipper 
in perticler is too good for that." 

He did, however, yield at last to tempta- 
tion, and exchanged with the captain, tak- 
ing the worth of rjoth animals for boot. 
Hj; now prepared to leave, and insisted 
that all should join him in a parting cup. 
Taking his liquor in his hand, he remark- 
ed, with sorrowful tones, that friends must 
part ; a sad reflection which was, howev- 
1 er, in his estimation, fully compensated by 
the consoling remembrance that they 
would all " meet at the hatter's." " If you 
ever visit the upper settlements in Geor- 
gy," continued he, " call on John Nipper 
in perticler, and if he does live in a log 
house he'll give you the best fare and show 
you the greatest wife, jorehaps, in seven 
states !" With this he took an affectionate 
leave, and went on his way rejoicing. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

" Was there ever a sane lover ?" 

Questions for the People. 

The last words of " John Nipper in 
perticler" stung Captain Demijohn like a 
thousand hornets. And here the editor 
would quote an observation of the mas- 
ter's in regard to jealousy : " Thus we 
see," writes he, alluding to Uncle Corny's 
suspicions ; " thus we see an illustration 
of a principle in human nature. If we love 
an object, we think it the most interesting 
and beautiful of its kind ; and, judging oth- 
ers by ourselves, we believe they think so 
too. Hence I have known women to be 
jealous of their monkeys and poodle dogs ; 
and men of their pet bears, which they ac- 
tually sold, fearing their mistresses might 
fix their affections on them." Thus it was 
with Uncle Corny, Who now hastened, 
with the master, to depart His toilet was 



arranged with fastidious care ; and embold- 
ened by his late potations, and by his impa- 
tience, he forgot his accustomed prudence 
when on horseback, and forgetful, also, of 
the master's sufferings, spurred up his nag 
to a rapid canter. As he came to the skirt 
of a wood, his skittish animal becoming 
alarmed, suddenly squatted and wheeled, 
while her burden, from the vis inertia, con- 
tinued onward in the original direction, 
and came to the ground with a thunder- 
ing crash. The captain realized what he 
had often sought when a boy, a vision of 
stars in the daytime ;' but his groans indi- 
cated any thing else but pleasure at ( the 
sight. 

For a while he was satisfied that his 
skull was fractured^ and at least seven of 
his ribs driven in ; and, as M'Bride came 
up, he called piteously to him to examine 
and see if his brains were not oozing out. 
•The master assured him, after a careful 
examination, that no serious, damage was 
done ; and, being assisted to his- feet, he 
hobbled back to the inn, where his wounds 
and his impatience threw him into a fever. 
He was, in fact, slightly delirious, and 
while the excitement was on him he pro- 
cured pen and paper and set himself to the 
serious job of inditing an epistle to the 
widow Powell. The master, in a chaster 
style and a. freer hand, would have per- 
formed the labour for him ; but, to use a 
vulgar phrase, the steam was up in Uncle 
Corny, and albeit unused to the author's 
small and pointed weapon, he now grasped 
it as if it had been a sword, and panting 
and expectorating at a furious rate, with 
his whole system worked up to the fiercest 
intensity, he wrote as follows : 

" Beautiful Sally — These few lines come 
from your adorer, who is now, as the French 
say, horsed in combat. I have been, my beau- 
tiful pigeon, flying on the wings of love to get 
a sight of those two stars that shine in the 
heaven of your face, and had got as far as this 
inn when a strolling vagabond cheated me out 
of my noble steed, and gave me, in return, a 
devilish little animal as spiteful and malicious 
as himself. The wicked creature threw me, 
and bruised me so terribly that I can scarcely 
walk over my room, and must, therefore, for at 
least a day, forego the pleasure of seeing you, 
dove of my heart. Oh that I had the wings of 
the eagle, that I might soar away, with light- 
ning speed and alight by your side ! Oh that 
you were now present to lay your snowy hand 
on my aching head, and cause all my pains to 
vanish by the music of your voice ! I thought 
at one time half of my ribs were broken, but 
what of that 1 When I am with you, duck of 
my soul, if all my ribs were smashed to pieces 
I would not mind it, for you'll be my rib, my 
life, the very breath of my nostrils ; and as you 
are an immortal beauty, and therefore immor- 
tal, how could I ever expire 1 But perhaps you 
love that infernal Georgian, that ■ John Nipper 
in perticler,' a most particular scoundrel and 
spabby wretch. 



94 



ALAMANCE. 



"My honoured friend, Lieutenant M'Bride, 
eays the women are all bewitched ; and surely 
you must have been when you suffered such a 
snivelling poltroon to storm the castle of your 
heart. My honour, as well as my happiness, is 
at stake in this matter, for did 1 not leave my 
own flag flying over the fortress 1 Did I not 
cany with me one of your ambrosial curls as a 
pledge of your fidelity 1 And yet you have 
turned traitor, succumbed, and surrendered to 
a straggling interloper, whose achievements 
have consisted in the scaling of sheep-folds, 
and the storming of hen-roosts ! And this, too, 
after 1 had offered you the heart of a soldier, 
and the hand of an honest man ! while you 
were dwelling a crowned empress in my soul, 
living there on honeysuckles and humming- 
birds, and while 1 was ready, with my good 
sword, to overturn for you all the kingdoms of 
the world ! I thought you a Quebec, a Rock 
of Gibraltar, which even the bravest could not 
scale in the face of an enemy ; and yet, while 
my memory and name were guarding the cita- 
del, its ramparts of mud and cornstalks have 
been successfully assailed by a grasshopper- 
lookir.g belligerent, one hundred of whom I 
could drive througn all »hc ;\var..ps in Geor- 
gia- 

"Oh my beautiful, my dear, my beloved Sally! 
oh charming deceiver, oh delicious mocking- 
bird ! how have I thought of you, and dreamed 
of you, and kissed, a thousand and a thousand 
times, the precious token which you gave me ! 
I wear it next to my heart, in which you are set 
like a jewel in a watch, and of which you regu- 
late all the motions. I intended, when the war 
was over, to carry you to Alamance, to dress 
you in silks .and calicoes, feed you on pigeons 
and blue-birds, and make you the most blessed 
Woman on earth. And you shall be, by Jove ! 
you shall ; for you are the most beautiful, ten- 
der, and faithful creature on earth, and who- 
ever disputes it shall taste my sword. I know 
you are an angel, a seraph, a celestial cherub, 
and I am ready to cut my own throat for having 
reflected on you. Death and perdition ! how- 
could I have been so flinty. hearted as to have 
insinuated a reproach against such a bright in- 
carnation of all that is good and sweet 1 Have I 
wounded your delicate feelings'! have I touched 
your sensitive heart 1 Oh dearest, forgive me, 
forgive me ! I bow humbly in the dust at your 
feet ; my own heart is broken into a thousand 
fragments, and I wish I had never been horn ! 
I ask again, 1 entreat, I beg. that you will for- 
give me, for my disorderly feelings are in a 
state of in?'ibordinalion, and will not submit to 
discip!i:!j as they ought. My understanding 
has ingloriously fled, and I cannot rally my 
senses while theyare fronting the battery of your 
eyes. Forgive me, dearest apple of my eye, 
and accept the token which I send yon — a lock 
of my hair — which is the only valuable thing 1 
have about me worthy of you. To-i.iorrow or 
next day I hope to present myself and all that 
I have for your acceptance; and to smother 
your reproaches with a thousand tender kisses. 
Lieutenant M'Bride, of my command, will hand 
this to you, and with ban you can hold a con- 
ference, as he is endowed with powers pleni- 
potentiary to represent and act for his senior 
officer. You will please send a note, a token, 



or a message by him, to relieve my pains and 
sorrows, and enable me to rise from my sick 
couch and hasten to your presence, my dear, 
sweet angel. 

" With sentiments of the profoundest esteem, 
love, and adoration, I have the honour of being, 
"Your devoted servant, 

"Corn'elius Demijohn, 
" Captain in the — Regt. of N. C. Militia." 

The only aid which the mnstcr rendered 
in the production of this composition was 
in punctuating the sentences, and correct- 
ing the spelling of two or three words. 
When it was finished, to gratify his wound- 
ed friend, he took charge of it, and started 
for the widow Powell's, on the road whith- 
er his reflections, as his own words show, 
were not the most pleasant. " I became 
satisfied." writes he, " that men and wom- 
en who want to marry are decidedly the 
greatest nuisances in the ws/ici, the grand 
disturbers of every community. Is it not 
strange thai oefore parties can come to 
gethc they must, each one, go through 
such a tedious course of folly? Here, for 
instance, is Mr. A. who's known Miss B. 
all his life, and Miss B. has known Mr. A. 
equally as well and as long. Now Mr. A. 
takes it into his head to marry Miss B., 
and what does he do] Does he go straight 
to her, and plumply tell his wishes] and 
does she, like a sensible being, agree at 
once to the proposition? No. Mr. A. 
must begin a new series of visits and at- 
tentions — must rig himself out in new ap- 
parel, smooth his hair with the nicest care, 
and add a new strut to his gait. He must, 
as the saying is. fly round, and round, and 
round her — must chase her from camp- 
meetings to balls, and from balls to water- 
ing-places, galloping after her carriage or 
gig, picking up her fan, carrying her band- 
box, and tying her shoe-string, with devoted 
assiduity — must sigh, blow, and flatter — 
must send verses, flowers, letters, candies, 
and presents enough to set up a wholesale 
establishment of confections, gewgaws, 
and curiosities. Such is the grand parade 
which is made about a matter that is the 
simplest thing in the world, and which the 
parson could finish in less than fifteen 
minutes. Why do not people tell their 
minds at once to each other, and do what 
they want to do ; As I thought of these 
things I became confirmed in my inten- 
tions of writing a book ; yet I much doubt 
if the world will profit by instruction. 
Men, when they want to marry, will still 
assume new and ridiculous characters, that 
sit on some of them about as gracefully 
as would the plumage of the peacock on 
a staid and solemn donkey ; and they must 
go through these transformations because 
woman is, and will be till the day of doom, 
a most incomprehensible absurdity." 

The author of these sage reflections 
found " John Nipper in perticier," at the 



ALAMANCE. 



95 



,widow Powell's, disposing of himself in a 
nianiier quite free and easy. Tlie Geor- 
gian received the new-comer very cor- 
dially, introduced him to the widow, and 
inquired if he would have his horse taken. 
The master, who saw that it was useless 
lo tarry long, declined John's offer,, and 
desired him to retire for a few minutes, as 
he, the master, had some private business 
vr'h the widow. John Nipper readily and 
cheerfully ooe^ ? A and when he was gone 
M'Bride spoke as folio.: «: 

"Mrs. Powell, I have brought you a let- 
ter from your friend Captain b£Tiijohn, 
who lies sick at the neighbouring inn.* 1 

"Poor, dear man, I'm sorry for him," 
replied Mrs. Powell ; " has he got the 
fluanzy, Mr. Magfried ] If he'll bathe his 
feet in warm water, drink some hoarhound 
tea just before he goes to bed, and tie a 
stockin round his neck " 

" He's not got the influenza, good wom- 
an, nor is my name Magfried. 1 am known 
as M'Bride, madam, Hector M'Bride; and 
1 -think you ought to recollect me, for 1 
lodged with you on one occasion." 

" Well, dear me, I thought,-! had seen 
you afore, Mr. M'Bride. I remember now, 
it was in the year of the great August 
fresh, yon sold my poor, dear husband, 
that's dead and gone, nine yards of green 
calico, which was the hest bargain he ever 
made, for it lasted me a twelvemonth, and 
then made a very good quilt. Are you in 
the peddler business yet, sir]" 

" Father of Mercies, forgive ns all for 
our follies!" exclaimed the master. "I'm 
not a peddler, Mrs. Powell, at least in the 
dry-gopds line, though my vocation in this 
world may well be called that of a peddler 
of pearls among swine. To be brief with 
you, madam, I and Captain Demijohn, 
with a few soldiers, lodged at your house 
on the night after the battle of Camden : 
and 1 now return you thanks for your kind- 
ness to us then. On that occasion the blind 
rascal Cupid pierced the heart of our gal- 
lant commander, Demijohn, and he has 
had the tremor cordis ever since. You only 
can cure him, and that's the object of my 
mission. " 

" Alack-a-day !" ejaculated the widow, 
•'I -do now remember Mr. Demijohn, who 
was a very fleshy man, was he not]" 

'■ Quite so, madam." 

" It's all fresh in my mind now," re- 
turned Mrs. Powell ; " though I've seen so 
inch trouble that I can hardly recollect 
any thing. If the trimble cords is not 
ke.tchin, Mr. M'Bride, I'll go over and see 
what. I can do for Mr. Demijohn; but l! 
haven't got any salts, and the camphire is 
just out. If he's not too bad oft", I may be 
able to cure him with yerbs and bleedin. 
Have you a lance, sir]" 

"You misunderstand me again," an- 
swered the master, " and I must, therefore, ' 



tell you plainly that my friend is desper- 
ately in love with you ; and, having been 
hurt by a fall from his horse, and therefore 
not able to visit you to day, he has sent 
his heart on paper. You will please read 
the letter, and prepare your answer, for 
I'm in haste. Captain Cornelius Demijohn 
will visit you in person to-morrow, or next 
day." 

"Dear! la! it's a love-letter, is it!" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Powell; "well, I do think!" 
and with this she opened the letter, held 
it upside down, and regarding it attentively 
for a few moments, blushed, and said, 
" Well, the captain is a sassy dog. I'll go 
h,: a read it to myself, Mr. M'Bride, and- 
write an an»*T2r." N 

M'Bride, suspecting trial c he could not 
read, insinuated that he would read the 
letter for her, as the captain's hand was 
not extremely legible. She was too mod- 
est, however, to accept the offer, and so, 
after being absent several hours, returned, 
covered with blushes, and handed to M'- 
Bride a sealed note, with which he imme- 
diately returned to the inn, suspecting that 
John Nipper was the author of the pro- 
duction which he carried, and satisfied that 
his friend Demijohn was on a decidedly 
foolish errand. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

CAPTAIN DEMIJOHN SETS OUT TO SEE THE 
WIDOW POWELL. 

Uncle Corny, before he heard a word 
of explanation from the master, eagerly 
tore open the widow's letter, and, to his 
unbounded astonishment, read what fol- 
lows : 

" These is to inform Capting Demyjon that 
John Nipper in perticler lias red the Capting'a 
letter, and returns his complements in kind, and 
has the plessure of informing Mr. Fatty that, he 
had as well return to whar he cum from. Mr. 
Demyjon has got one widder Powell, who he 
ses cum near to hreak his rihs, so he had better 
let the tother widder alone if he dosent want all 
his rihs smashed and his daylights let out. 

" No more JVom yours till death do us part, 
"John Nipper in perticler." 

Reason, threats, and entreaties were now 
of little avail with Uncle Corn)'. He was 
satisfied, and acknowledged that the w'dow 
had played him false ; but has it not been 
the case since the world began that all 
used-up lovers and injured husbands musl 
see their own shame with their own eyes] 
Captain Demijohn formed no exception to 
the general rule, and was determined, he 
said, to chastise John Nipper for his inso- 
lence, and to confuse and abash the widow 
by confronting her in person, and remind- 
ing her of her fickleness and treachery, 
not recollecting that at such interviews 



96 



ALAMANCE. 



the gentleman invariably suffers more than 
the mistress. Accordingly he exchanged 
horses with the landlord, loaded and primed 
his pistols, girded on his sword, and array- 
ed himself in uniform. This done, he held 
out his hand to M'Bride, saying, " Fare- 
well, lieutenant ; I cannot — I have not the 
heart to ask you to trouble yourself any 
more in my behalf — to be sure I can't. I 
thank you for all your kindness, and shall 
remember you when I am breathing my 
last. Here we part." 

" God forbid !" exclaimed the master, 
" God forbid that I should leave you, now 
tnat you have more need of a friend than 
<you ever had before. You are infatuated, 
my friend — about madly to rush into un- 
necessary difficulties, and that is the very 
time that friendship's zeal should burn 
more warmly than ever. Go where you 
list, I am with you to the death !" 

The rage of Uncle Corny was increased 
to a fury when he found the widow's house 
deserted ; and there is no telling what he 
might have done in the extremity of his 
passion had it not been for a lad who op- 
portunely passed and informed him that 
he met the widow, a short distance off, 
riding behind a stranger. The boy also 
stated that an old negro woman was in 
company, riding a separate horse and car- 
rying a large bundle, and he supposed they 
were going to the neighbouring village. 
" Forwards !" shouted Uncle Corny ; and, 
clapping spurs to his steed, he dashed off 
at a respectable gallop, followed by the 
master, whose horse could not be induced 
to change his long trot for any more ac- 
commodating motion. Thus they clatter- 
ed along until they neared the village, 
when suddenly half a dozen armed men 
sprung at the bridle of Demijohn's horse, 
one of them crying, " Hold him fast, the 
rascal, hold him fast !" The captain's hand 
was instantly on his sword-hilt ; but be- 
fore he could draw his trusty weapon he 
was dragged to the ground, disarmed, and 
bound. 

" What's all this ado, my masters ?" 
asked M'Bride, as he rode up. 

•' The other spy^the other spy !" cried 
the men who had arrested Corny : and 
soon the master was in the same plight 
with his unlucky friend. Demijohn swore, 
threatened, and chafed ; the master ex- 
plained and entreated, but neither of them 
was heeded in the least, and both were led 
into the village ; a great concourse of boys, 
negroes, and women following after, and 
seemingly disposed to tear the prisoners 
to pieces. Uncle Corny, especially, ex- 
cite- 1 a general indignation, the women 
tongue-lashing him as he passed along, 
and heaping on him every sort of oppro- 
brious epithet, and the boys goading him 
with sharp sticks and pelting him with 
rotten eggs. The fat knight, with his face 



distended beyond its usual dimensions and 
glowing like a furnace, his mouth foaming, 
and his eyes glaring like those of an en- 
raged buffalo, appeared to the multitude a 
frightful monster, while his stubborn si- 
lence and the vigorous manner in which 
he applied his feet to the shins and backs 
of the boys had no tendency to diminish 
the odium and dread which his presence 
at first inspired. In this way they were 
carried to the bar-room of a sort of tavern, 
the only public room in the place, and here 
the crowd pressed in until Uncle Corny 
began to dissolve into streams of perspira- 
tion. Behind a little table, at the farther 
end of the room, sat two grave-looking 
men, and to a small open space in front 
of them the prisoners were brought, the 
multitude pushing and crowding round un- 
til court and prisoners were nearly over- 
whelmed. 

" Stand back, gentle-men — stand back, if 
you please !" said one of the court. " The 
court can't do justice when it's scrouged 
in this way. Stand back and let us pro- 
ceed on with our proceedinces, and do all 
things accordin to law. Prisoners, you 
will please to tell your names." 

" Cornelius Demijohn and Hector 
M'Bride," answered the master ; " and I 
would be pleased to know," continued he, 
" on what charge we are arraigned. Is it 
for being Whigs or Tories ?" 

" Never mind, my good fellow," replied 
the spokesman of the court, "do you speak 
when you're spoken to, and you'll lam in 
good time what you are brought here for. 
Squire, have you got thar names writ 
down?" 

" Yes, sir, all down." 

" Now, Mr. Demijohn," continued the 
questioning member, " will you be good 
enough to tell me, in the first place, what 
you are doin here ; secondly, why you 
came here ; thirdly, why you wear that 
uniform ; and, fourthly, where you live ? 
Put down all the questions, squire, and 
leave a place for his answers. Come, sir, 
the court's waitin." 

" I came from Alamance," answered Un- 
cle Corny. 

" That's not the first question, sir," in- 
terrupted the court. " We want no dodgin 
here. The first query is what are you 
doin here — eh]" 

Demijohn. — " I was brought here." 

The Court. — " You was brought here, 
was you'? (a most precious rascal). Well, 
sir, what were you doin at the inn? Have 
I got ye now, old fox ? It takes me to sift 
sich as you, and I'll do it before I'm done 
with you. Out with it, man, what were 
you doin at the grocery ?" 

Demijohn. — " I was attending to my own 
business." 

M'Bride. — " Will you permit me to speak 
for my friend? He is in a bad humour, 



ALAMANCE. 



97 



and perhaps I can, in five minutes, give 
you all the information you want." 

The Court. — " Perhaps you can, Mr. 
Bagoflies, and a precious sight more than 
we want. You will please to hold your 
tongue, sir, as it will be time enough 
for you to speak when your own turn 
comes." 

" What was your business at the gro- 
cery, Mr. Demijohn? I've put the ques- 
tion in a symbolical form, and all you've 
got to do is to give me a plain answer. 
It's monstrous easy," continued the Court, 
in mock-gentle tones, "to tell what you 
was doin. It won't kill nobody, so jist 
out with it." 

Demijohn. — " Go to the devil, sir ! I'll 
answer none of your questions, until I 
know what crime is alleged against me. 
So take your own route." 

The Court. — " I'll send you to the devil 
presently, my bully ; but first I must know 
why you, bein a malignant Tory and Brit- 
isher, have on that uniform, eh?. Have I 
hooked you now, my friend"?" 

" The old squire's a hoss," said one of 
the crowd. 

" He knows what he's about," spoke a 
second. 

" Well, he does," said a third. 

" Perhaps," suggested the silent member 
of the court, " perhaps it would be well 
enough to search Mr. Demijohn, and see 
what papers he carries about him." 

" That was well said," replied the other 
magistrate ; and immediately examining 
the clothes and pockets of the captain, 
they found various articles, which were 
laid on the table for inspection. First was 
opened and read the letter of John Nipper, 
and next the captain's tobacco-box, which 
contained nothing dangerous to the cause 
of the Americans. At last they found a 
curious bundle, which at once excited a 
universal curiosity, and which the magis- 
trates, with great caution and solemnity, 
proceeded to examine. It was enveloped 
in a handkerchief and four or five sheets 
of the softest silk paper, and, when finally 
exposed to public view, created no little 
astonishment and alarm. FifSt, there was 
a lock of hair, tied with a piece of pink- 
coloured ribbon, and next there were va- 
rious scraps of paper, written over with 
what purported to be amatory verses to 
some unnamed beauty. Each of these 
was read aloud by the talking magistrate, 
who observed, as well as did the crowd, 
that their production strangely affected the 
prisoner who had carried them about him, 
and whose colour now changed rapidly 
from red to blue, and from blue to white, 
while he trembled from head to foot. It 
was evident to the court that some dia- 
bolical plot was contained in these most 
unpoetical, rhyming effusions; but they 
were at a loss to know what it was, when 
G 



suddenly a bright thought occurred to the 
leading justice. 

" I see it now," said he, " it's all as plain 
as the nose on my face. This, squire, 
is, beyant all question, the hair of King 
George, for I've heern say that all the 
Britishers and Tories worship him as if he 
was their god, and that's the reason they 
call him lord and master." 

"But what does he carry this lock of 
hair for?" asked the other justice. 

" Bekase," answered his associate, " be- 
kase he's a papist. Besides, you see, this 
lock of hair is. their secret passport, and 
every Britisher and Tory in the United 
States has got some of it, and when they 
show it to each other they know they are 
among their friends. As to these here 
papers, I'm thinking they allude to the 
death of General Washington, or Marion, 
and it's all plotted out here by Lord Corn- 
wallis himself. See here, what he says 
in one place (it's darnation hard to read), 
' And death shall end all pains ;' and here 
agin, he says, ' Right through the heart like 
— like' — what the devil is this word? — 
'like' e, 1, e, c, elec — 'like electricity.' If 
that's not arson, mayhem, and treason, 
then old Brainchops is a fool, and don't 
know nothin at all. Gentle-men," contin- 
ued he, rising, and motioning to the master 
to be silent — " Gentle-mew, we have this 
day diskivered a grand plot which mout 
have ruined us all. I know'd for a long 
time past that some sich scheme was 
hatchin, and I told Squire Snapplegrit that 
somethin was goin to happen. / know'd 
it ; and i" know'd, as soon as I laid my 
eyes on this big bully, that he was the 
very man. I told Squire Snapplegrit, as 
soon as I seed him, that he was a spy ; 
and you see that I've worm'd it all out of 
him, notwithstandin he is so mulish. I've 
managed sich as him afore, and they nev- 
er ketch me nappin. Gentle-men, it's a 
solemn business to take the life of a fel- 
ler- creetur in cold — Silence ! who's that 
kickin up sich a row back there ?" 

" Avaunt, and quit my sigtit !" exclaimed 
Uncle Corny, staring towards the door, 
and becoming greatly excited — " Oh ! thou 
she-monster, thou worse than the lewd 
woman of Babylon ! leave me — leave me, 
and never let me see you again ' Are you 
not ashamed? Is not your heart broken? 
I can bear death— I can smile at the per- 
secutions of these fools— but, O God ! to 
think that you, Sally— you, whom I loved, 
should betray me, and then come here to 
mock at my sufferings !" 

The whole crowd was in a state of con- 
fusion — the magistrates storming for si- 
lence, those about the door swaying to 
and fro, cursing, cuffing, and kicking each 
other, and Uncle Corny still staring at and 
upbraiding the widow Powell, when that 
good woman made "her way to the mag- 



98 



ALAMANCE. 



istrate's table. Her face was red with 
blushes and with her exertions to get into 
the room, and being entirely out of breath, 
it was some time before she could speak. 

" Good woman," asked Squire Brain- 
chops, at last, "what is your business 
here ?" 

" Yes, sir — yes, sir ; I'll tell your honour 
when I take a little breath — My husband 
that now is, sir " 

" Let me be shot at once !" exclaimed 
Captain Demijohn, raising his arms to his 
face. " End the business at once — I'm 
ready." 

" You shall get your desarts in good 
time, my friend," said Chief Justice Brain- 
chops ; " but we must proceed with our 
proceedinces in regler syllogisms. Go on 
with your story, madam." 

" Yes, sir, your honour. As I was about 
say, my husband that now is — I'm married 
now, sir — married a second time, my poor, 
dear, first husband, whom you all know'd 
— he. was a mighty good man, and every- 
body spoke well of him — he died ; let me 
.see — it was either on the tenth or eleventh 
of November, just three years ago — I have 
it set down in my Bible at home, but I dis- 
remember now whether it was the tenth 
or eleventh, but it was one of them days, 
sure, and I remember that the next day 
came the great November snow " 

" Good woman," said the silent magis- 
trate, " tell us at once what you want, 
and never mind about your first husband, 
or your second." 

" Yes, sir, your honour. Well, my pres- 
ent husband — we were married to-day, sir, 
by Parson Miller, at my relation's, Betsy 
Tibbleshanks. It was done in a hurry, 
and I haven't yet got over the fright ; but 
my husband told me, ' Sally,' ses he, ' I 
expect that Captain Demijohn and Leften- 
ant Magfry are in a peck of trouble jist 
now.' And then he told me that he had 
told a story on them to have them arrest- 
ed, and that I must come and tell you 
about it." 

" Who's your husband ?" asked Squire 
Snapplegrit. 

" Mr. Nipper, sir — John Nipper," an- 
swered the lady, modestly ; at which Cap- 
tain Demijohn started as if a pistol had 
been fired in his face. The master was 
more composed, and begging permission 
to examine Mrs. Nipper himself, he pro- 
ceeded as follows : 

" Mrs. Nipper, do you not know- the fact 
that I and my friend there are Whigs, 
and that we fought in the battle of Cam- 
den, and lodged at your house the night 
after ?" 

" Yes, sir ; I remember it now as well as 
if it was yesterday ; and that night Mr. 
Demijohn and myself set up all night with 
a poor sick officer. I never thought then 
that Mr. Demijohn " 



M'Bride. — " Stop a moment. Is not that 
your hair V 

Mrs. Nipper. — It looks very much like 
it, sir, and Mr. Demijohn told me he was 
going to tie it up in pink ribbon as soon as 
he got to a store. He spoke to me very : 
politely, and often told me he could die for 
me ; and little did I then think he Avas such 
a man as he is ; but men are mighty de- 
ceivin, and I've often heern old Mother 
Suddlepot say, that lives over by the great 
mill, on the other side of Peedee — 1 used 
to go there often when I was a girl, for I 
had a cousin livin there who's been killed 
in the wars. He was a valiant man, and 
they say when a cannon-ball tore off his 
shoulder, he " 

" For God's sake, leave off your cousin's 
history," exclaimed the master, " and at- 
tend to the business in hand. Why were 
you afraid of Mr. Demijohn'?" 

" Why, sir," answered Mrs; Nipper, 
" didn't you bring a letter from him, and 
didn't he say in that letter that he was 
goin to carry me to Tophy and feed me on 
snails and rattlesnakes 1 That I was ugly, 
and reformed, and bewitched, and that he 
and yourself was goin to carry me off next 
day because he had a spite agin me, and 
that I hadn't no friends, and needn't make 
any fuss about it. Here's the letter, sir, 
which my husband that is requested me to 
bring to you." 

The master, for the satisfaction of all 
parties, and to convince the woman and 
the crowd that they all had been imposed 
on by the Georgian, desired to read the let- 
ter ; but Demijohn opposed it, being unwil- 
ling that the world should know his folly. 

" I have been a fool," said he, " and I 
am willing to pay for it. Let me be shot 
rather than be cleared by exposing my 
childishness ; in fact I prefer death, so let 
the court proceed." 

The court, however, were disposed to 
read the letter, and did read it aloud, every 
word piercing the unfortunate author like 
a dagger, and creating an immense sensa- 
tion in the crowd. Hatred for the captain 
was changed to sympathy, and the public 
indignatioifrurned against John Nipper. 

" I always suspected he was a knave," 
said Squire Brainchops, " and told Squire 
Snapplegrit that I didn't like his looks. 
Where is he 1 Let him be arrested and 
brought before us directly." 

The multitude, eager to see some one 
executed, now dispersed in search of the 
Georgian, little heeding the entreaties of 
his wife, who declared that he was sick 
a-bed. John, however, was not so sick as 
to be unable to leave the village as soon 
as he parted from his wife ; and the inhab- 
itants now searched for him in vain. His 
wife's old servant and all her clothes were 
gone, and it was also ascertained that her 
husband had that very day sold her inter- 






ALAMANCE. 



99 



est in the land on which she lived, all her 
.stock and household property, and pock- 
eted the money. Whence he had come, 
whither he had gone, who he was, where 
he resided, no one could tell, and his un- 
fortunate bride was overwhelmed with 
grief. 

As she sa! at her relation's, weeping and 
wringing her hands, Cornelius Demijohn, 
who was now at liberty, accosted her. 
"Madam," said he, "I come to bid you 
| farewell. You have injured me — don't 
cry nor say a word, for I forgive you. 
; You were deceived — I know it all. Fare- 
well, and may you yet be happy!" He 
.gave her his hand, and when he took it 
away a paper dropped on the floor, in 
which was found a twenty-pound note and 
these words : " Expect this sum from me 
till you marry again. — C. D." 

"Mr. M'Bride, let's go to Alamance," 
said Uncle Corny, as he met the master in 
the street. 

" Agreed, with all my heart," answered 
the latter ; and the two friends were imme- 
diately on the road. Not another word 
was spoken by either; but as the captain 
came to the late residence of the widow 
Powell that was, he halted his horse for a 
moment, and a single tear moistened his 
eyes as he took from his pocket a little bun- 
.dle and flung it into the yard. The master 
understood his feelings, and in silence they 
journeyed on till they reached the inn, 
where M'Bride, after some persuasion, in- 
duced his friend to take up for the night, 
•which had now commenced, and which 
threatened to be cold and stormy. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

TRAGEDY AT THE INN. 

The master having promised his host 
extra pay, the latter agreed to receive no 
other guests that night ; an agreement, by 
the way, which he supposed he would not 
be tempted to break, for the wind moaned 
dismally through the yard, and the sleet 
rattled against the windows. The party 
within, though seated round a cheerful and 
blazing fire, seemed to be affected by the 
dreariness without, and for some time not 
a word was spoken. Demijohn especially 
looked sad and disconsolate, and with his 
left arm hanging over the back of his chair, 
bis chin drooping on his breast, and his 
hat pulled nearly over 1 his eyes, seemed 
the very picture of melancholy as he sat 
with his eyes fixed on the giowing embers, 
and his mind occupied with gloomy re- 
flections. M'Bride was stooping to read, 
•by the light of the fire,, a piece of an old 
copy of the "Prim® Origines" which he 
had found on the premises ; the host was 
tinkering and whistling in one corner* and 
iris wife sat in the other, engaged with her 



knitting and rocking a cradle with her foot, 
when suddenly a loud'rap at the door start- 
led all from their seats. 

" Who's that V demanded the landlord. 

" Open and see," was the answer, and 
again the knocking was repeated. 

" You must tell your name and busi- 
ness," said the innkeeper, "before I can 
open the door." 

" I can't afford to holler my name in this 
night air," replied he outside, " and it's 
not the fashion for gentlemen to be intro- 
duced with a door between them. Open 
this door, I say." 

" Stranger," said M'Bride, " this house 
is chartered for the night, and is full be- 
sides. There is a village near by, and 
there you can be accommodated, so depart 
in peace." 

" I'll enter in war," answered the stran- 
ger, "and I'll empty the house in a twinklin 
if this door aint opened. I say, do you 
want these planks shivered 1" And at 
this he thundered against the door with 
so much violence that the landlord begged 
him to desist for a moment; and, putting 
his mouth to the keyhole, asked to which 
side his would-be guest belonged. 
• " To the outside," answered the latter, 
" and a devilish cold one it is." 

Landlord. — " Are you Whig or Tory, 
many or few V 

Stranger. — " You're almighty perticler, 
and I must give my answers to them ques- 
tions at my leisure, after I git warmed." 

"And if you don't answer them now," 
spoke Demijohn, reaching for his sword, 
" I'll see very quick who's the stronger, 
you or we. We are armed — and, by Jupi- 
ter, if you do not tell to which side you 
belong, you shall taste of my sword." 

" Liberty, then, and be damned to you !" 
shouted the stranger; and instantly the 
door flew open, and Ben Rust was nearly 
squeezed to death by the master and Uncle 
Corny. 

" My Christin friends," said the new- 
comer, " it's no time for compliments, for 
there are ladies out here, and you may 
prepare to see a sperit." 

Neither Demijohn nor M'Bride had ever 
heard of the reported death of Edith May- 
field, but still they were as much aston- 
ished to see her as if she had been a ghost. 
While supper was preparing for the new 
guests, Rust briefly narrated the adven- 
tures of Edith and of himself; told how 
Richard Sikes had conducted him to her 
place of concealment, and was beginning 
to give an account of the state of things 
at Alamance when another knocking was 
heard at the door. The stranger at once 
announced himself as a faithful British 
subject, said he was alone, and that he 
was so anxious to be admitted that he sur- 
rendered himself a prisoner on the spot. 
The door was cautiously opened, and Dick 



100 



ALAMANCE. 



Sikes shrunk behind the trembling Edith, 
for both saw their most dreaded enemy, 
Alan Ross. He remembered the master 
and Demijohn, whom he cordially saluted, 
and, bowing stiffly to Rust and the ladies, 
said — " Mr. M'Bride you seem astonished, 
and you have reason to be so. I am now 
about to end my allegiance to my earthly 
sovereigns, three of whom I have served. 
In the service of the first I was rewarded 
with wounds, poverty, and exile ; in that 
of the second, with suspicions and distrust ; 
while from the third I have received a 
broken heart. Gentlemen, may God pros- 
per you and reserve you for a better fate 
than mine ; Edith, farewell, for here we 
part forever, you for heaven and I for 
hell !" Instantly, and in quick succession, 
two pistols were fired, a groan and shriek 
were heard, and Alan Ross and Edith May- 
field fell lifeless to the floor. The com- 
pany crowded so thickly round the latter, 
that for some time no one knew whether 
she was dead or only wounded ; but at 
last, Nannie Scott, lifting her inanimate 
friend in her arms and carrying her to a 
bed, ascertained that she had swooned 
from alarm, being but very slightly wound- 
ed on the shoulder. Ross himself expired 
immediately ; and, as the company were 
gathering round him, and the confusion 
subsiding, a groan was heard in the corner 
of the room, and there Dick Sikes was 
found mortally wounded and weltering in 
blood. The poor wretch, fearing to be 
seen by Ross, whom he had once served; 
had hid behind the ladies, and there re- 
ceived the contents of the pistol aimed at 
the breast of her whom he had been in- 
strumental in saving from an unhappy 
fate. He asked every one's forgiveness, 
besought Edith to pray for the salvation 
of his soul, and then, extending his hand 
to Rust, said, feebly, " Farewell — you are 
the only friend I ever had : I hope you'll 
remember" — and death closed his lips for- 
ever. A bundle of papers, not sealed, and 
addressed to f Henry Warden," was found 
in the pocket of Ross, and then he and the 
Tory, side by side, and by the light of 
torches,- were hastily buried in a small 
neighbouring glade. After the others had 
left, Ben Rust lingered for a while over 
the last resting-place of Sikes, and dropped 
upon his grave the only tear of kind sor- 
row that had ever been shed for him. By 
the time he had returned and finished his 
supper, it was nearly day ; and the land- 
lord, horror-struck at the tragedy which 
had been enacted in his house, was urging 
his guests to be off by the early dawn. 
" I am at heart a Whig,'.' said he : " but I'm 
poor and timid, and cannot endure to see 
bloodshed. I therefore have tried to re- 
main neutral in action; but I often find 
ways to serve our friends, and you may 
rely on my fidelity and prudence. The 



whole country will be excited in a few 
hours, and, if you do not wish to be seen 
and heard of by every body, you must be 
far away by ten o'clock to-morrow. I'll 
take care that no one gets on your track, 
if you'll tell me which way you are going ; 
for I'd die before I'd expose fhat beautiful 
and innocent lady to any more troubles. 

The master informed him that as the 
border country was unsettled and danger- 
ous, he should aim for the mountains of 
North Carolina ; and accordingly at break 
of day the Alamancers and Nannie Scott 
were on the road. As the landlord pre- 
dicted, the country did become excited ; 
the most strange and miraculous stories 
got into circulation, and the glade was 
considered as haunted ground for half a 
century. Recently, however, the place 
was enclosed and put under cultivation, 
and human bones and a pair of rusty pis- 
tols were turned up by a ploughman. They, 
of course, created quite a sensation ; but if 
these sketches ever reach that country, 
they will at once solve a mystery which 
has puzzled the learned men of the vil- 
lages, and afforded many exciting ques- 
tions for the debating clubs of the neigh- 
borhood. 

The master, who was always interested 
at the sight of manuscripts, could not resist 
the temptation to open Ross's papers, 
which he found to consist of his will, a 
letter to Henry Warden, and a sketch of 
the author's life, to which the letter was a 
sort of introduction. The will directed 
that all the testator's real and personal 
estate be sold, and the proceeds be divided 
equally between Nannie Scott, Henry 
Warden, and Duncan Stuart. " Two of 
these persons I have injured," said he in 
the instrument alluded to, " and the other 
is my relation, and has been a dependent 
of my family ; may what I leave them pay, 
in part, the great debt I owe them." 

Of this will Flora M'Donald and her 
husband were left executrix and executor, 
and full directions given for the transmis- 
sion of the funds to the United States. At 
the first halting-place the master read, first 
to himself and then to the company, the 
history of Ross ; and as it was left among 
the papers bequeathed to us, it will appear 
in the following chapter. 



CHAPTER XL. 

SCRAPS OF MY <JWN HISTORY. 



BY ALAN ROSS. 



If ever I should write a book — an 
achievement I shall attempt as soon as I 
get time— it shall treat of a new subject. 
Solomon and his admirers say there is 
nothing new under the sun ; but, with all 
due respect for the wisdom of the learned 
Hebrew, I dissent from the opinion quoted. 



ALAMANCE. 



101 



Who in his day ever heard of a treatise on 
window-gazing? This is the subject on 
whicTf Twish to publish a work, and if I 
die before I do it the world will be a loser. 
Poets and lunatics proper have, from time 
^immemorial, dilated upon the pleasures of 
star-gazing, moon-gazing, landscape-gaz- 
ing, and ocean-gazing, but of all the excit- 
ing, beautiful, or inspiring scenes in the 
world, commend me to the sight of a lady's 
— a strange lady's — face at an upper win- 
dow. There is a great difference between 
such a sight at an upper and a basement 
window. In the latter case the fair nymph 
seems to be associated with ideas of house- 
hold labours, is not in her own peculiar 
abode, where she is supposed to think only 
of love and romance, while the approach 
to her is easy. Besides, she is within 
speaking distance, and a single word would 
dissolve the illusion, and at once proclaim 
the beauty to be a common fellow-mortal; 
and all this, in addition to the risk of seeing 
bad teeth, hearing a coarse voice, and find- 
ing a very dull and stupid intellect. But 
when you dimly see a sweet face behind 
the half-drawn curtains of an upper case- 
ment, the heart is at once fired with a vo- 
luptuous glow, and a crowd of pleasant 
and undefinable ideas rush upon the mind. 
The imagination has full room to play, and 
the fair vision is converted into a delight- 
ful and gracious houri, with a tender heart 
and a soul where only love and its pleas- 
ures can ever be thought of. We imagine 
that she will kindle at a look or gesture, 
and a mute correspondence immediately 
commences, we thinking our neighbour 
affected like ourselves, and that every mo- 
tion of her head and wave of her hand are 
intended to convey a world of delicious 
meaning. Those only are happy who live 
among the creations of fancy ; and- when 
is the imagination so bright as when sit- 
ting at our own window, on a pleasant 
evening in June, the window just opposite, 
on the other side of the street, is seen to 
rise, and a blooming young maiden is re- 
vealed, her face, and neck, and the begin- 
ning of her breasts' gentle swell being vis- 
ible \ Here you have before your eyes 
an enchanting and lovely creation, with 
mortal passions and sympathies, and yet 
totally disconnected with the vanities, foi- 
bles, cares, and sorrows of mortal exist- 
ence. On such occasions the being before 
me seems born only to love and be loved ; 
and thinking that she has been watching 
me and is occupied with thoughts similar 
to my own, I become ecstatic, and forth- 
with open a communication with her. At 
first I make acquaintance by a half-averted 
look or gaze, then I make some very slight 
and scarcely perceptible motion with my 
hand, and finally become liberal with signs 
and gestures. In this way only, except 
in one solitary instance, have I loved ; and 



I have spent thus hours, days, and months, 
the most pleasant part of my existence. 
I cannot love a woman that I know, and 
with whom I associate. If I converse with 
her, from lips that seem to be made only 
to distil nectar and to discourse celestial 
harmony, I hear coarse, rude sounds, and 
plain and vulgar ideas ; if I touch her, I 
find that the apparently ethereal form that 
floats along in webs of gossamer is a wad- 
ed mass of dry- goods and whalebone ; and 
if I mingle with her much, I soon learn 
that the wihole animal is but a compound 
of passion and folly. And this brings me 
to another and a darker trait in my charac- 
ter. This world has ever seemed to me a 
great battle-field, where all animated be- 
ings and the elements of inanimate na- 
ture are perpetually combatting. In the 
war of elements among themselves, and 
against all breathing things, the earth 
yawns, and mountains are rocked to their 
bases; volcanoes pour forth their floods 
of liquid fire, the clouds dart their terrible 
bolts, shivering and destroying whatever 
they touch, conflagrations lay cities in 
ashes, tornadoes and whirlwinds sweep, 
with desolating fury, over the country, and 
the raging billows of the seas are ever 
yawning to engulph in their fathomless 
depths. These are some of the most nota- 
ble ways in which the wars of senseless 
matter are carried on ; but every substance 
in the material world contains, an element 
of destruction that wars on other elements, 
each one struggling for the mastery, for 
absolute dominion. Which will finally 
succeed — whether, as some think, fire, or, 
as others suppose, water — it is to my mind 
certain this earth of ours, this congeries 
of hostile particles and principles, will 
be rent and torn by terrible convulsions, 
and become a formless and uninhabited 
chaos, a globe of burning fire — be shattered 
into millions of fragments, or become a 
great mass of virus matter, whose putres- 
cence will scatter pestilence through the 
universe. As it is with inanimate matter 
so' is it with man and brute, whose voca- 
tion is destruction. Are not all men, and 
women too, fighting each other, openly or 
covertly 1 Look abroad over the world ; 
consult history, consult your own expe- 
rience, reader, whoever you be. War is 
the chief pastime of kings and rulers, by 
whatever name they may be called, and at 
their command mighty armies are ever in 
the field, strewing the earth with human 
bones, and moistening its soil with human 
blood. The first element of a great state 
is a great and well-appointed army ; and 
to butcher our species is the surest, the 
shortest, and the safest way to the venera- 
tion and confidence of our race. But it is 
r.ot merely when armed soldiers meet that 
hostilities are carried on. Every city, and 
village, and hamlet — yea, every court- 



102 ALAMANCE. 

house,. and church, and domestic altar, is a forth to conquer. I never experienced a 
battle-field. The pastor pounds you from defeat, and soon acquired such a reputation 
the pulpit, the lawyers baste and the judg- ; that one look was a victory. Thus things 
es roast you in the forum of justice, the ! stood with me when my political aspira- 
doctors poison and crucify you, the usurer I tions were extinguished in blood on the 
and the bailiff pursue you with writs and • field of Culloden, and I had to fly my coun- 
warrants, the author stings you with his | try, leaving to mourn and wither behind 
pen, the women ensnare you on every j me a large circle of female friends, who 
side, and the tongue of slander and de- each gave me a lock of their hair, and 
traction will follow you beyond the grave, each one of whom had sent to the army 



Every one is trying to pull down others to 
build up himself, and as each individual is 



and navy several of its most noble and 
gallant spirits. I carried with me the pre- 



an Ishmael, with his ..hand against every | cious tokens, cherishing them with great 
man, and every man's hand against him, j care — to exhibit for the amusement of the 
so are sects arrayed against sects, creeds | ladies over the Straits 



against creeds, classes against classes, and 
ranks against ranks. Among these classes 
maybe mentioned the male and female, who 
carry on an hereditary and inextinguish- 
able war against each other. Every wom- 
an is a magazine of destruction, a minia- 
ture army in herself, from a child, careful- 
ly equipped for destruction. Her dress, 
her looks, her words, and her very gait are 
all designed with a view to the infliction 
of injury on the opposite sex ; and pretty 
much the same may be said of them. On 
both sides fraud, artifice, and deception are 
practised ; and as some men seem born to 
be fooled by the women, so are the wom- 
en destined to be the victims of other men. 
Now, of all wars I love that most where 
the braying of trumpets, the thunders of 
artillery, the glitter of steel and gold, the 
proud prancing of horses, and the furious 
shock of contending hosts lend an air of 
grandeur to the scene and fully entitle it 
to its appellation of " glorious war." This 
is my theatre, here I prefer to combat; 
but I was born a soldier, and ready for any 
kind of fighting. Although I had rather 
front a battery of forty well-served can- 
non than be tied to the side of a termagant 
who displays her military propensities in 
curtain lectures and fireside hostilities. I 
am not the coward to shrink from any 
contest. I was born a soldier, and born 
to be a victor ; and, while some of the sex 
have been victimizing others, they have, 
with singular infatuation, invariably fallen 
before me. I am the avenger of my sex, 
and have inflicted on the wily and heart- 
less vixens the woes and infirmities which 
.they had heaped upon the heads of honest 
: and generous lovers. I happily came into 
this warfare armed with a brazen face, a 
cold, selfish, and ambitious heart, and .a 
lying and fluent tongue— a gentleman who 
worshipped honour, but only that ceremo- 
nious punctilio which all gentlemen are 
bred to observe towards each other. Na- 
ture was also liberal to my person, for I 
had a bold stare, a rakish look, a goatish 
beard, an athletic person, and a strut which 
a newly-appointed officer might envy. I 
was insensible to a tender emotion, except 
at a window ; and, thus prepared, I went 



I did not carry my good fortune with 
me, however; and so unflattering was rav 
reception by the lively beauties of France, 
that I retired to the country town of Ca- 
hors, and took up my lodgings on a street 
all the windows on which I had seen filled 
with female faces. My only acquaintance 
and companion was a certain Captain Eli 
Dujant, a droll character, who told me that 
in the wars in Italy, under old Marshal 
Villars, he commanded a company of dis- 
carded lovers, who were the most despe- 
rate fighters in the French army. They 
had all gone to the wars to win glorv and 
break the hearts of their mistresses ] and, 
as their fate illustrates a certain homely 
old proverb about biting off the nose to 
spite the face, I will here record it for 
preservation and for future benefit. At 
the taking of Milan seven of these gallants 
were left on the field of battle, buried with 
the undistinguished and unremembered 
dead. Three soon after perished by dis- 
ease — fifteen were killed under the walls 
of Parma, and some twenty or thirty Ave re 
lost by various casualties. One returned 
home a sous-lieutenant on one leg of bane 
and flesh and one of Avood, and found his 
dulcinea a country farmer's wife and the 
mother of three dirty children: another 
came back minus an arm, a lip, and half a 
dozen of teeth, to recognize his quondam 
spiritual mistress in the fat and grea&y 
OAvner of a village bakery ; a third iioav 
hops about a hospital on Avooden pin-: : and 
the fourth, who Avas the "captain hii::>elf.. 
^.ives upon the interest of a small estate. (sj a 
roistering, boon companion, a village pot- 
house politician, and carries in his face 
and on his body the mark of almost even- 
kind of Aveapon used in Avar. His nose 
Avas split by a SAA^ord-cut, his cheeks fm - 
roAved by musket-balls, his chin seamed 
With 'a bayonet-thrust, three fingers on his 
right hand broken, and his left ankle fit < - 
tured by a spent cannon-ball. His mis- 
tress had, in the mean time, decamped Avith 
a strolling dancing-master, and Captain 
Dujant, thoroughly cured of his belief in 
ideal love, very philosophically concltfcrcd 
to take the Avorld as it is. I did riot tell 
him of my intended window campaign, 



ALAMANCE. 



103 



and to give the business a further zest, I 
would not permit myself to hear of any 
lady's name, rank, character, or age. I 
sauntered up and down the street for sev- 
eral evenings, watching to see who noted 
my appearance, and when I saw that I 
was attentively marked, returning imme- 
diately to my room and presenting myself 
at my window, I found that I had at last 
attracted the attention of a beautiful face, 
and that the lady had ascertained where I 
lodged, and, as it seemed, my object. This 
was enough, and so the next day I re- 
mained at my window, and so did she at 
hers, frequently exhibiting herself to the 
shoulders, in the street. The next day I 
began a communication with signs — slight 
motions of my hand — and was fairly thrilled 
with ecstacy when I saw her hand gently 
wave in return. It was several days before 
we could make distinct and significant signs ; 
but at last we became extremely confiden- 
tial. I was delighted, enraptured, and my 
happiness exceeded all bounds when she, 
on a certain day, requested me, by signs, to 
be under her window at eleven that night. 
At the appointed hour I was there — a shut- 
ter opened, a small white hand appeared, 
and I coughed slightly to indicate my pres- 
ence. The next moment a ladder of ropes 
was flung out, and soon I was at the win- 
dow, reflecting on nothing and glowing 
with indescribable emotion. The curtain 
was raised, a light flashed in my eyes, and, 
without looking before me, I plunged into 
the room and found myself in the centre 
of a group of men. I was, of course, em- 
barrassed, but instantly a merry, ringing 
laugh behind me caused me to turn, and 
I beheld, beautiful as an angel, and as 
innocent-looking, my window acquaint- 
ance. 

Madam , first announcing her own 

name, continued, " This, Mr. Ross, is my 
father, Monsieur de , this my hus- 
band, and these my brothers. Thinking 
you wished to visit the family, Monsieur, 
and knowing your penchant for making 
acquaintances at windows, we concluded 
it would be gratifying to you to be thus in- 
troduced." 

"We would be glad to see you often," 
said the husband, " and if such a mode of 
visiting is most agreeable to you, the rope- 
ladder will still be at your service, and the 
window open, though, as we reside down 
stairs, it would suit us ( best to receive you 
there. I suppose, my dear," turning to his 
wife," he can get through one of the front 
windows on the basement story." 

" Certainly, my love," answered Madame 
-» — , with a sweet smile that stung my soul, 
"certainly Monsieur can come' through the 
window by the chimney, and I will have 
the furniture moved out of his way." 

Now, if I had had less effrontery than 
the renowned namesake of Saint Nicholas 



himself, I should have swooned, and have 
given up my habit of window-gazing ; but, 
happily for me, the shafts of wit and sar- 
casm could not penetrate my mail of brass. 
With the utmost sang froid of manner, I 

bowed to Madame , thanked her for 

her kindness, and intimated that it was true 
I had wished to make the acquaintance of 
her family, that I had the utmost horror of 
doors, and that, having now accomplished 
my object, I would take my leave, promis- 
ing to call again. 1 requested permission, 
to leave as I had entered, and, as I went 
down, whether by accident or design I 
know not, but the street was full of peo- 
ple, who gathered round me, and seemed 
much amused at my situation. I was, how- 
ever, consoled with the reflection that they 
did not know my name, when, just as I 
touched the ground, Madame's husband 
bawled out from the window — " Are you 
safely down, Monsieur Ross V 

Was I cured of my singular passion? 
Not at all. It had grown with my growth, 
strengthened with advancing years, and 
though I was yet young, quite young, I 
had seen too much pleasure in its pursuit 
to think for a moment of giving up my 
most cherished occupation. The French 
are the most liberal and philosophical peo- 
ple in the world, and I prove this assertion 
by citing the fact that I was not next day 
mobbed by the citizens of Cahors, because 
I was a mysterious stranger, who would 
not tell his business or form intimacies in 
the town. No doubt the kindred and 
friends of Madame amused them- 
selves sufficiently at my expense ; but no 
one talked to me or interrupted me, and so 
I began to look about for another adven- 
ture. 

In the suburbs of the town, and stand- 
ing by itself, was a neat residence, sur- 
rounded by a wilderness of flowers and 
shrubbery, and wearing an air of seclusion 
and privacy. On reconnoitring it atten- 
tively I saw, to my inexpressible joy, a 
corner window of the second story open, 
and a toilet-table, and other indications 
that the room was inhabited by a lady. I 
had no doubt but that she was as fair as 
one of the blossoms of the peach-trees 
whose glorious bloom made a paradise of 
a neighbouring orchard ; and the situation 
of the house, and everything about it, con- 
spired to keep up the illusion that some, 
tender Amanda resided there. The win- 
dow, however, was nearly obscured by 
the foliage of a great elm, whose leafy 
branches covered one side of the house, 
and through which a luxuriant cypress- 
vine had woven itself into a tangled web. 
Occasionally I could see the flutter of a 
dress, and once or twice a gloved hand 
was thrust out to cull a flower from the 
vine, but I never could get a glimpse of 
the owner's face. What astonished me 



104 



ALAMANCE. 



still more was the entire stillness which 
pervaded the place, and the absence of 
any living' thing, except the inhabitant of 
the enchanted chamber. I still kept prowl- 
ing about the house ; and, becoming bolder 
and more impudent than ever I had for- 
merly been, I one day went into the yard, 
and, finding a side door open, I walked 
into the house. There was a family at 
dinner : for the first time in my life I felt 
ashamed. Had the tenants been ordinary 
people, I might, perhaps, have conducted 
myself with my usual effrontery ; but at 
opposite ends of the table sat two persons 
•whose looks awed and confused me not a 
little. The one was a hale, but venerable 
and white-haired man, whose lofty fore- 
head seemed to have been made for a 
crown, and in whose face Nature had 
plainly put the stamp of its highest order 
of nobility — that of an honest man. His 
looks were neither stern nor timid, and 
though they indicated a rather .kind and 
generous disposition, they showed that a 
lion's heart beat within his aged bosom. 
The opposite character was a lady, and 
such a lady! I saw her but a moment, 
but in that moment her face was so im- 
pressed upon my mind that it can never 
be effaced. In person she seemed taller 
than her sex usually are, yet her form was 
so slender, so symmetrical — her move- 
ments so graceful, every motion of her 
limbs and body so full of poetry, that, 
when you did not see her eyes, she seemed 
an airy, light, ethereal creature, an unsub- 
stantial embodiment of beauty, grace, and 
sentiment. Her features, however, were 
rather prominent, and her pale, blanched 
skin seemed perfectly white when con- 
trasted with the raven hair that was gath- 
ered into a massive pile upon the crown 
of her head, and with her large, lustrous, 
fiery, black eyes, that indicated a slumber- 
ing volcano in her breast. There were 
other persons at the table ; hut 1 paid no 
attention to them, stammering out, in 
French, a hasty apology for my intrusion, 
and alleging that I had mistaken the 
house. 

" Your accent declares you to be my 
countryman," said the old man, in English, 
" and I will venture to address you as 
such. Whom were you seeking 1 ?" 

" Captain Dujant," I replied, in the same 
language, and holding out my hand, con- 
tinued, " I am glad, sir, that I have found 
a countryman, and should be still more 
happy to make your acquaintance." . 

" I am incog, for the present," said he, 
rather coldly ; and, as he was one of those 
whose slightest words are to be obeyed, I 
took my leave. As I went out at the door 
I cast a longing glance at the lady, and a 
slight colour mantled her cheeks as her 
glowing eyes melted into mine. I was 
now keenly desirous of following up my 



adventure, and taking my friend, the cap- 
tain, into my confidence, we agreed that it 
was best to give the lady some hint of my 
passion in plainer language than that of 
signs. As every French gentleman can 
write gentlemanly verses, the captain com- 
posed, and I translated, the following : 

IMPROMPTU, 

On seeing at Table a beautiful Lady, whose acquaint- 
ance the Author was not allowed to make. 

" But for the place where first my eyes 

Beheld that pale, fair face of thine, 
I should have thought thee from the skies, 

And now believe thee half divine. 
Yet still I must in conscience say, 

I hope you may a mortal prove ; 
At least that one poor mortal may 

Attain the heaven of thy love. 
But 1, alas ! may never know 

But what thou art a bloodless sprite, 
A sweet, but unsubstantial show, 

A beauteous, airy form of light. 
To solve this doubt within my mind, 

I've wish'd (forgive me) that I could 
Once clasp thy lily hand in mine 

And feel if it be flesh and blood !" 

That night we treated the strange lady 
to a serenade, and, as her window was 
open, I flung into it a perfumed pair of 
tiny gloves, in which my verses were fold- 
ed, and then hastily left the place. As ray 
place of residence was too far from the 
window to undertake to communicate by 
signs from my own window, and as it was 
indelicate to stand in the street gazing at 
the lady's chamber, I could only pass it 
and make signals as I walked. On the 
following morning after the serenade, I 
could see that the fair stranger was sitting 
by her window, for a portion of her body 
was visible, though her face was con- 
cealed. A hand with a glove on it — not 
one of those I threw into the chamber — 
was thrust out, and it waved and moved in 
answer to the motion of mine. I was en- 
raptured, and passed often that day, the 
hand still answering to mine, whose lan- 
guage became bolder and more significant. 
The next day the window was closed, and 
the next ; and again having recourse to my 
friend, the captain, he soon ascertained for 
me that the bird had flown. The family 
had, in fact, left the town ; but their prob- 
able destination was ascertained by the 
captain, who had a lively curiosity, and 
who had become my devoted friend, taking 
a prodigious interest in my window ad- 
ventures. The novelty and excitement 
of such an occupation pleased him greatly, 
and when I began to prepare for my de- 
parture to Bordeaux, he declared his reso- 
lution of bearing me company. At. Bor- 
deaux the captain had acquaintances, and 
he learned that the very day before we 
arrived a family, answering to the descrip- 
tion of those we were pursuing, had taken 
passage to the island of Cuba. 

All the soldier in my nature was now 



ALAMANCE. 



105 



fully aroused, and in a few days the cap- 
tain and myself were on board the Nep- 
tune, on our way to the port of Havanna. 
In this last-mentioned city we were both 
total strangers ; but we paraded the streets 
morning and evening, scanning every face 
we saw at the doors and at the windows 
of the houses, and carriages. At last, in a 
quiet part of the town, the identical gloved- 
hand I had seen so often in Cahors waved 
. at us from an upper window. I was trans- 
ported with pleasure, and a lively panto- 
mimic conversation sprung up, the French- 
man joining in with more zeal than grace, 
and accompanying the rapid and extraor- 
dinary evolutions of his hands, head, and 
body, with a running commentary which 
brought upon us the gaze of all the neigh- 
bourhood. After several mute conversa- 
tions, I at length determined to scale the 
window, when, one moonlight night, as a 
carriage passed me, two eyes which I could 
not mistake gleamed upon me. I watched 
the vehicle, keeping my eyes fixed upon it 
among the crowd of chaises that dashed 
through the streets, and marking every 
peculiarity about it until I was satisfied I 
should always know it. That night it 
passed me several times, and several times 
the bright meteors within shone upon me 
with an expression that convinced me I 
was known. At length I took my station 
near the house where I supposed the lovely 
unknown resided, and, to my unbounded 
astonishment, her carnage drove up to an 
opposite house, into which its beautiful 
tenant was escorted. Here was a mys- 
tery, land it was rendered still darker on 
the following morning by the discovery 
that the gloved hand did not belong to the 
lady I had met at the table in Cahors. 
The face of this latter I distinctly saw at 
an upper window ; and as- she seemed to 
"recognise me with some emotion, I gave 
up^to the Frenchman the pursuit of the 
gloved hand, concealing, however, my rea- 
sons, and only alleging a new adventure." 
Here the master's reading was inter- 
rupted by piercing screams and piteous 
entreaties for mercy, issuing from the 
neighbouring woods. The master, ever 
ready to succour the distressed, and Rust, 
ever keen for an adventure, rushed off in 
the direction of the sound, and, in a solitary 
glade, in a deep and darkly-shaded valley 
or glen, saw what the reader will hear of 
in the following chapter. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND A NEW ONE. 

As the master and Rust approached, they 
found three men, two of whom seemed to 
be the prisoners of the third. One of the 
former was secured to a tree, while at the 
root of a solitary hickory, in the centre of 



the glen, kneeled the other, his hands tied 
behind his back, a rope round his bare 
neck, and his eyes fixed upon his captor, 
who was in the tree, and preparing to hang 
the suppliant below. The yquth above 
had contrived to bring up a heavy beam of 
wood, and when first seen he was in the 
act of fastening this to his feet, whereby 
the master instantly concluded that he in- 
tended to raise his prisoner by swinging 
himself to the other end of the rope. It 
was a singular and novel spectacle ; but 
before the Alamancers had time to make 
a remark an eagle-glance was upon them : 
the man up the tree was instantly on his 
feet, and, raising his rifle, said, " Stand and 
tell whether you are Whigs, Tories, or 
British !" 

The master now recollected his folly in 
having hurried off without his arms ; but 
Rust, who had been more mindful, pre- 
sented his gun, exclaiming, " Fire at your 
friend ! Blaze away if you can at a Whig." 

The young stranger dropped his piece, 
and a smile spreading over his thin and 
sallow visage, he held out his hand, and 
frankly declared that he also was a Whig. 
The "master, as he approached, was recog- 
nised by the culprit at the tree, who proved 
to be the veritable John Nipper himself, 
and who was extravagant in his expres- 
sions of delight at the unexpected meet- 
ing. The faces of the good and generous 
cause them to be heavily taxed by two 
classes of persons : they render them the 
prey of the evil-designing, and they cause 
even strangers and brutes, when in dis- 
tress, to appeal to them for help. John, 
who had rightly scanned the master's coun- 
tenance, and had formerly played upon his 
simplicity, had now the bold effrontery to 
address him as a friend, and confidently to 
demand his protection. M'Bride was em- 
barrassed by the impostor's attentions ; but 
his kind and merciful heart was touched, 
and he began to interfere in Nipper's be- 
half, when the young South Carolinian, 
searching his face with his sharp, grey 
eyes, asked, " Is he your friend, sir?" 

" I claim friendship with no such man,"' 
answered the master, irritated by the ques^ 
tioner's words and manner ; " but he is a 
poor devil, and I trust you will not stain 
your hands with his blood." 

" Look at that paper, sir," said the other, 
" and see if he is a poor devil. I believe 
your name is M'Bride." 

The master opened the paper and found 
what follows: — "A covvy of too, Leften- 
nant Hector Macbride and Capting Kurne- 
lius Demmijon. Macbride has short legs, 
grey eyes, a little bald on the top of his 
hed, has bin a schoolmaster, talks a grate 
deel, is verry larned, and a grate fule. 
Demmijon — verry fat, red in the face, big 
blue eyes, black hare, and dont say much ; 
drinks like the devil — a bite." 



100 



A L A M A N C E. 



There were other particulars in regard 
to the Alamancers, their place of residence, 
their present location, business, and the 
probable rout they would take after seeing 
the widow Powell. The master was be- 
wildered, astounded, and infuriated ; and, 
looking first at Nipper and then at the 
Carolinian, the latter said, " I see you are 
at a loss. Now you must know that this 
Nipper, whose real name is Joseph Shanks, 
is one of the greatest rogues, the most 
diabolical villain and Tory in all the coun- 
try." 

The master then learned that this Shanks, 
and several others in Georgia and South 
Carolina, had banded together to plunder 
and murder the patriots. That they were 
ever prowling about the country, singly 
and in pairs, passing under assumed names, 
noting the persons whom they met with, 
and then giving information to the gang, 
who held stated meetings. He learned 
also that these robbers added to their pro- 
fession another occupation which exceed- 
ed in villainy any thing of which the mas- 
ter had ever conceived. They would hunt 
out lonely widows and unprotected single 
women, insinuate themselves into their 
good graces, get married to them by one 
of their band, who personated a clergy- 
man, and then remain with their supposed 
wives only long enough to turn their effects 
into money, when they would desert them. 

" This scoundrel, Shanks," continued the 
South Carolinian, " while I was upon his 
track, married and plundered the widow 
Powell, a simple-hearted woman, and an 
old acquaintance of my mother. I fol- 
lowed the incarnate devil, and at last over- 
took him and two of his associates, who 
had camped in an old school-house. I 
shot one through a crack in the wall, and 
the others surrendered." 

The master found, on further enquiry, 
that the slave, and effects, and some of the 
money of Shank's last victim had been 
returned to her, and that it was the pur- 
pose of their captor to hang his prisoners. 
I le endeavoured to dissuade the youth from 
the commission of such hasty and extreme 
punishment, urging that it was better the 
guilt)^ should escape than that they should 
be executed without due form of law. The 
Carolinian, however, was determined on 
his purpose, declaring that he would take 
the responsibility of executing Shanks at 
least : and as the master wished not to see 
the scene, he returned to his friends from 
Alamance. Rust, who was prodigiously 
taken with his new acquaintance, remained 
to assist him in the execution, and for an 
hour afterwards such piteous moans, en- 
treaties, and lamentations issued from the 
woods, as satisfied M'Bride that the other 
wretch was undergoing a torture not much 
more desirable than the pangs of death. 
It was true enough, for the arm of Rust 



had lost none of its vigour, nor had his 
taste for welting the backs of Tories been 
at all diminished. When, in his own lan- 
guage, he had sufficiently curried the Geor- 
gia Colt, he dressed him, and conducted 
him and his captor to the presence of the 
master and his companions. As the youth- 
ful and strange Whig approached, his coun- 
tenance and his maimer excited general 
attention. He was yet a mere lad, tall, 
slender, and awkward, but with sinews 
that seemed to be wires of steel. He was 
plainly, even meanly dressed, clumsy in 
his address, and simple in his manners ; 
and, though so lately acting the hero and 
the executioner, he now showed, by his 
candour and simplicity, that he was an 
unsuspicious boy. He believed whatever 
was told to him, and was greatly pleased 
with the attentions paid him by the master 
and his friends, with childish sincerity as- 
suring them, after their compliments on 
his bravery, that he was their friend for 
life. " If ever any of you get into trouble, 
call on me," said he, " and I'll protect you." 

The company gazed at each other ; Rust, 
who liked the lad, turned his head to avoid 
any display of his feelings at such a singu- 
lar boast, and the master, smiling, said, 
" You have, my young friend, truly, done 
wonders, but you must not be too confident. 
When I first saw you I thought you cruel 
and revengeful, but I was mistaken ; and 
I now doubt not that your apparent cruelty 
is the result of ah ardent and rather hasty 
desire to administer justice. It's a gener- 
ous but a dangerous trait, and the best 
thing I can do for you is to guard you 
against it." 

" I don't think so," answered the youth, 
a glow kindling on his well-marked face. 
" If you know a man has committed a crime, 
and have him in your power, why permit, 
him to run the chances of an escape by a 
tedious trial, where form more than jus- 
tice is regarded ? Besides, these are rev- 
olutionary times ; the country is in a glo- 
rious war for liberty, and, as the people 
have said all the tyrants and Tories must 
die, they shall, by the eternal, when they 
fall into my hands. This rascal, ' turning 
to the Tory, " I have saved for a particular 
purpose. You are at liberty, Jack, and 
mark me ! if you regard your life, igo 
straight to your masters, the British, and 
tell them that I shall remember them, and 
that 1 hope we'll meet again." 

The Tory promised to do as he was 
bade ; and the young Carolinian, resisting 
all the importunities of the master to go 
with him, took leave of the Alamancer.s, 
declaring that he could take care of him- 
self. " I wish," says the master in his 
notes, " I had a sketch of his face, for it 
was a remarkable one. I have often la- 
mented my want of ability to draw, for I 
meet with many strange and uncouth faces, 



ALAMANCE. 



107 



buto'el all I- ever saw that of the rude young 
Carolinian, for its boldness, sternness, and 
well-marked and rugged features, im- 
pressed me most. If the lad lives, he will 
yet emerge from obscurity, and will at 
least obtain a local notoriety if he does not 
become somewhat distinguished in his 
State. His name, as he told me. was An- 
drew Jackson." 

V 



CHAPTER XLII. 

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ALAN ROSS CONTINUED. 

The* "Alamancers, after the events re- 
lated in the last chapter, thought it prudent 
to resume their journey. At noon on the 
following day they halted again, as on {he 
day previous, and the master, while his 
friends were refreshing and resting them- 
selves, finished the Scotchman's story. 

",£lne night," continued the manuscript 
of Ross, "my friend, Captain Dujant, rushed 
into my room more excited than even any 
Frenchman I ever saw. His eyes were 
rolling wildly in his head, his hair stood out 
like the quills of the fretful porcupine, his 
nostrils were distended, his dress disor- 
dered, and his mouth foaming ; and, fling- 
ing his hat on the floor he stamped, chafed, 
and jumped about like a madman. 

" What, in the devil's name, is the mat- 
ter, captain'?" asked I, rising to my feet 
and avoiding him as I would a frantic bed- 
lamite. < 

" Mattaire !" shouted he, in broken En- 
glish, ^Mattaire! Vat de mattaire'? Ciel ! 
Diable't Tamnation!" 

And here he let forth a volley of excla- 
mations in English, French, Dutch, Rus- 
sian, and Sclavonic, for aught I could tell, 
fot\ leould' not understand a word he said 
format least half an hour, during all of 
Which time his arms, legs, head, hands, 
bodyv and tongue seemed to be talking, for 
such- vivacity of action, serio-comicality of 
manner, and volubility of speech it is im- 
possible for the most lively imagination 
tb '-'picture to itself. I found out at last 
that he had scaled his lady's window; but 
what : terrible accident had happened to 
him I could not learn. I was, however, 
dragged by him to the residence of his mis- 
tress, and,: approaching a basement win- 
dow,, he suddenly halted; and, staring as if 
he had seen the great beast spoken of in 
the Revelations of St. John, he cried, 
pointing at the window, " Voila, voila — re- 
gardez!" 

i approached the aperture, and scan- 
ning -the room, I saw, reclining on cush- 
ions! and fanning herself, the mysterious 
owner of the gloved hand. Her skin was 
as- black as the darkness of an Egyptian 
night, her hair short and crispy, and her 
iifose as.fiat ; as a flounder, while her great 



white eyes glistened in the centre of her 
huge fat face, like two moons in a firma- 
ment of ink. 

While I was still gazing at her she rose 
and advanced towards the window, and, as 
I was hid myself, I was able to obtain a full 
view of the figure of this African Venus. 
She was but little taller when standing 
than she had been in her recumbent pos- 
ture, and there was about as little undula- 
tion in her form as there is in a hogshead 
of Jamaica rum, which she much resem- , 
bled. Her walk was a sort of a waddle, 
and through the thin and elegant drapery 
in which she was attired the perspiration 
was pouring out in streams, while there 
was a fragrance about the room which an 
American planter will readily understand. 
She came to the window, looked up at the 
moon, and, heaving a deep sigh, ejaculated 
in broken French a tender sentiment about 
Monsieur Dujant. This last-named wor- 
thy, as if fearful of being devoured by the 
monster before him, seized my arm, and, 
trembling like an aspen, hurried me from 
the scene. When we had arrived at my 
room, Captain Dujant had sufficiently re- 
covered to give me a tolerably intelligible 
account of his adventure. It seems that 
the abstract of sentimentalism of a win- 
dow flirtation was too rarefied a diet for 
a Frenchman's heart, and, from making 
signs, he took to writing letters, and was 
finally so far admitted into the lady's con- 
fidence as to be informed by her that she 
was the arbiter of her own destiny and im- 
mensely rich. The Frenchman was so 
carried away by the enthusiasm inspired 
by the chase, that he contracted an alli- 
ance with the unknown beauty, and it was 
finally agreed that he should see her. 
What took place at the interview no one 
will ever know, as the captain becomes so 
much excited when he gets to this point 
that the most expert linguist cannot under- 
stand a word he says. The next day he 
was on his way to " la belle France," and 
I have not heard of him since, though I 
cannot but feel grateful towai*ds him for 
having taken off my hands the veiled beau- 
ty of the mysterious chamber. His ab- 
sence caused me a slight depression of 
feeling ; and, as I was sauntering about in 
the cool of the evening, I was accosted by 
name by a young man who met me. He 
informed me that he was the son of the 
gentleman whom I had so unceremoni- 
ously visited in the town of Cahors, and 
that his father, having learned my name, 
lineage, and fidelity to the House of Stuart, 
was desirous of making my acquaintance. 
The old man had learned part of my his- 
tory from the Frenchman, without being 
known to him, and I was startled at hear- 
ing that his name was Duncan Stuart. His 
veins were rich with the blood-royal of the 
ancient house whose name he bore, and 



108 



ALAMANCE. 



he was, in fact, as I knew by the court 
calendar, but three degrees removed from 
the throne. Of course he hated the Guelphs, 
and the Guelphs, as he supposed, hated 
him, and he was a fugitive from that be- 
loved land over which his noble ancestors 
had swayed the sceptre of kings. Such is 
the course of things here in the eternal 
race for power — peasants shoving princes 
from their thrones, and the descendants of 
princes seeking protection among republi- 
can rebels. Such was the fate of Duncan 
Stuart — what glorious names in Scottish 
annals ! — and he was now actually on his 
way to America. Thus was I meditating 
when I entered the house where the Stu- 
arts were staying ; but my philosophical 
musing was quickly ended by the flash of 
those eyes of liquid fire. I was formally 
introduced to the blushing lady, whose 
Christian name of Louise was only pro- 
nounced by Duncan Stuart. I soon found 
that her mind was quick, profound, and 
cultivated, her fancy vivid, lively, and brill- 
iant, and her heart susceptible of the most 
varied and intense emotions. She was, 
in fact, the most inflammable creature I 
ever saw, keenly sensible of pain or pleas- 
ure, with lively feeling relishing the deli- 
cate sallies of wit, the bright pictures of 
fancy, and the sadder, yet. sweeter touches 
of sentiment. Withal she was passionate, 
and never was there such a compound of 
the ethereal and sensual — such a blending 
in one soul of the celestial tints of Para- 
dise with the grosser colours of earth. Her 
conversation was like the display of Chi- 
nese fireworks, now the sparkles of fancy, 
with ten thousand varied, soft, and tender 
hues would gleam, like the spray from a 
fountain of liquid diamonds, or like a 
shower of cinders from the altars in 
heaven ; now the coruscations of her wit 
would flash in quick succession vividly and 
brightly as the arrows of the clouds, and 
anon the meteors of wilder and deeper 
thought, with their strange and novel 
shapes, would shoot athwart the dark firm- 
ament of speculation, leaving long, spiral 
tracks of light behind them. One strung 
with nicer sensibilities than myself would 
have been amused, charmed, awed, and 
impressed, now with a happy train of 
thought, and now with a touching strain 
of unspeakable pathos ; but I was thinking 
only of a new and brilliant conquest. True, 
I could fain sentiment ; and, as we sat in 
the sleeping moonlight, which, in that 
tropical clime, lit up the earth with hues 
that seemed to be lent from some dreamy 
and celestial land of blessed spirits, I was 
doing my best to entertain my companion 
with that courtly discourse with which I 
had shone in the polished circles of Eu- 
rope, when suddenly the sound of a guitar 
floated softly through the air, and fell in 
plaintive melody on our ears. My fair 



friend became instantly attentive, and, fol- 
lowing her example, I listened also, and, 
to my astonishment, heard a rich and me- 
lodious voice accompanying the music 
with the following song in English : 

" 'Twas in my boyhood's early prime, 
And in my own fair sunny clime, 
One hazy, dreamy, summer day, 
Beneath a willow-tree I lay ; 
The babbling sound of waters near 
Fell softly on the drowsy ear, 
With tinkling bells of browsing herds, 
And hum of bees, and song of birds ; 
Above me glow'd a cloudless sheen, . • 
Around me hills and meadows green, 
And many a wide and level plain, 
O'er which there waved the yellow grain: 
'Twas there that in my waking dreams, 
Fair as the dawn's lirst trembling beams, 
And tender as the starry night, 

.Though clothed in Heaven's own purest light, 

fA voiceless spirit smiled on mine 

*And bound it with a, spell divine. 
And ever since that happy hour 
In festive hall and rustic bower, 
Through crowded streets and shady wooda, 
And Nature's deepest solitudes, 
I follow'd still that spirit's face, 
But sought in vain its dweJling-place, 
Until I saw those eyes of thine, 
Where faith unchanging, love divine, 
So meekly yet so brightly shine, 
And where there beams a heart that now 
Is stainless as thy marble brow. 
Oh. dear Louise ! how like a star 
Of Iran's summer skies you are ! 
How like a flower that scents the vale, 
Or maiden in a fairy tale ! 
So dreamy, light, so sweet, so wild, 
A sylph in form, in heart a child ; 
While like the hum of distant bees, 
Or like the sigh of Autumn's breeze, 
Or like the notes of birds in Spring 
When Nature sports her robes of green, 
Thy voice, low, plaintive, soft, and clear, 
Doth fall so witching on the ear, 
That from this earth my spirit flies, 
And dreams itself in Paradise !" 

I have preserved the words, not because 
they were beautiful in themselves, but 
because they recall the happy emotions 
which their first recital produced, and on 
account of the singular character of the au- 
thor. The time, the air, and the company 
and country in which I then was, caused 
them to fill me with a glow I never felt 
before ; and my companion, observing my 
feelings, seemed to exhibit more sympathy 
with them than I cared to see. The demon 
of jealousy was aroused, but I concealed 
my thoughts, and heard, with apparent in- 
terest, that the serenader was a young and 
adventurous American, who had been ship- 
wrecked, and had had a rather romantic 
introduction to Louise and the Stuarts. I 
saw him next day, and one glance showed 
me the son«of genius and poetry. He was 
quite a youth, small and tender as a 
maiden, whom he might well have per- 
sonated but. for his high, broad forehead, 
" sicklied over with the pale cast of 
thought," and the fire of his dark eyes, 
which threw over his face the light of a 



ALAMANCE. 



109 



bright intellect, and a heart of pure, fer- 
vid, and exalted sentiment. It was a face 
beaming with a world of glorious mean- 
ing, and you could see at once that his 
unfathomed soul was a crystal sea of light, 
not coloured by the faintest stain of base- 
ness or sensuality. It was evident that he 
loved Louise with the holy and impas- 
sioned fervour which can only burn in the 
breasts of earth's finest mould, and I ob- 
served that he had made a decided impres- 
sion on the lady. I had the advantage, 
however, in being an inmate in the house 
of Duncan Stuart and his most intimate 
friend, and so I took my time in carrying 
on the siege, gradually poisoning the mind 
of Louise with my own sentiments, and 
endeavouring to give the animal ascen- 
dancy over the ethereal in her nature. In 
the mean time we all came to America, 
and, Stuart continuing his confidence, I 
remained his guest, and my rival hung 
about in the neighbourhood, observing, 
with inexpressible anguish, the palling of 
his hopes, and breathing his passion in 
prose and in verse, whose words ought to 
have melted the most obdurate heart. But 
Louise was now, mentally, my prisoner. 
Her sentiment was gradually fading, and 
she, by degrees, learning to ridicule and 
hate the man who was so much like her 
original self. 

Stuart had settled in the southern part* 
of North Carolina, and soon gallants and 
suitors, from far and near, gathered round 
the lady who had grown up under his roof 
and next to his heart, and between whom 
and himself there was some mysterious 
connection. I cared not to unravel it, and 
was fully satisfied in knowing that I was 
intensely loved by this fair unknown, and 
that I was master of her will. The most 
fiendish passions took possession of my 
heart. I secretly built me a cottage in a 
secluded vale on the banks of the Claren- 
don* river, and began to hint to Louise my 
infernal designs. At first she was startled ; 
but I soon overcame her opinions, and she 
finally began to agree with me that mar- 
riage was invented only for the animated 
clods of earth — a slavish institution, which 
quenched the fires of love, and entailed 
misery on its votaries. Of course, I be- 
lieved no such thing ; but my tender friend 
imbibed the opinion with ardour, and be- 
came so devoted to me that her principal 
amusement consisted in the ridiculing of 
thqge who demanded her hand in wedlock. 
She even went so far as to make a regis- 
ter of the names, appearance, actions, and 
sayings of her suitors, and this she gave to 
me, and will be sealed up in this history. 

Tales of scandal began, at last, to creep 
abroad ; and my first rival, who now des- 
paired of success, and who was one of the 

* Clarendon : this was the original name of the 
Cape Fear. — Ed. 



noblest characters on earth, was desirous 
only of saving the reputation and securing 
the happiness of Louise. With a pure and 
sublime devotion to the weal of a scorn- 
ful mistress, unknown before his time, he 
gently, and by letter, insinuated to her the 
danger of her position, which was on the 
crumbling verge of an awful precipice. 
He professed to have the most unbounded 
confidence in her purity, but he forcibly 
reminded her of the danger of braving 
public opinion, and entreated her to be- 
ware of an intimacy with me, whom he 
accused of improper motives. I was pres- 
ent when she read the letter, and, heavens ! 
who can describe her looks and manner ?■ 
Were I to live a thousand years I should 
never forget the grandeur of her actions, 
the unearthly fire that blazed in her eyes ! 
What an actress she would have made ! 
How queenly, majestic, and awful would 
she have seemed in tragedy ! She at last 
became furious ; but I, although a stranger 
to the feelings of a coward, deemed it pru- 
dent not to break with her bold lover, and 
prevailed on her to send him a moderate 
answer. She could, however, no longer 
endure his presence ; and, though he begged 
only a friendly nook in her heart, she 
plainly told him that, though she knew he 
was her friend, she could never like him 
again. She even endeavoured to insult 
him, and requested him never more to 
show her his face. Reader, did you ever 
see a poet, a noble son of Nature, while 
his heart was breaking 1 It is one of those 
sublime and impressive tragedies at which 
angels are the weeping spectators, and no 
pen can describe it, no scenic representa- 
tion can convey the faintest idea of it. 
The South- Carolinian (for he was from 
that state, or province) felt his generous 
heart wither within him, and saw the glo- 
rious hopes of a soul brighter than the sun 
which lights the universe, set forever ! In 
fact, the sun of his happiness had gone 
down, and his harp — the first, best, and 
dearest friend of his early and guileless 
youth — poured forth a few sad wails of 
enchanting melody, and then became si- 
lent forever. Now, thought I, is the time 
to vindicate my honour and the young 
harper received, among his other thick- 
coming misfortunes, a cartel from me. 
My second, or friend, was a glorious vil- 
lain — an old subaltern of mine, whose 
heart was harder than adamant, and who 
was never so happy as when carrying out 
my devilish purposes. As I expected, the 
discarded lover of Louise desired an op- 
portunity of seeing his friend, and also 
intimated a hope that the necessity of a 

fight might be avoided. Old smiled 

grimly, and answered that if the gentle- 
man had no stomach for the fight he 
must write and sign such an apology 
as he should dictate. The young Caro- 



110 



LAMANCE. 



linian immediately betook himself to the 
only military friend he had in the neigh- 
bourhood, and, stating the whole case, 
asked advice. Most people consider you 
brave in proportion to the length of your 
whiskers, the ferocity of your looks, and 
the malignity of your heart — and thus 
my rival's friend judged him. He plainly 
showed, by his hesitation and embarrass- 
ment, that he suspected the pale poet of 
cowardice ; and this latter, divining how 
matters stood, exclaimed — 

" I know your thoughts ; but you shall 
not be compromised. I must have a friend, 
and I must make an explanation to Ross ; 
but, if you will go with me to the field, I 
will, to satisfy you, now give you a power 
of attorney to blow out my brains, if I do 
any thing you can condemn !" 

This appeal could not be resisted ; and 
so, next morning we had a meeting. As 
we took our stations, pistols in hand, my 
antagonist said, 

. " Before we fight, I wish permission to 
make an explanation. Mr. Ross, 1 have 
suspected that you had and have base de- 
signs on an innocent and unsuspecting 
lady ; and, thus thinking, I discharged my 
duty by warning her against you. As I 
know little of you personally, and as lov- 
ers are proverbially jealous and suspicious, 
I may have been mistaken. If you will 
disavow such intentions as I have charged 
you with, and give me proof of your char- 
acter as a gentleman, I will make the most 
ample apologies to you, and before all the 
world." 

With a sneer, I answered ; " I expected 
this. If your heart, sir, is cowardly, say 
so at once, and I will dismiss you. God 
forbid I should wish to frighten you to 
death !" 

u Mistake me not, sir," answered he : 
" my explanation was to discharge my 
conscience before God, our master. To 
you, dog, I have nothing to say, and you 
shall die !" 

The cool sternness of his manner some- 
what disconcerted me, and hence I missed 
him, while his shot wounded me sharply 
in the thigh. I was not much hurt ; but, 
choosing to get out of the fight, I fell and 
pretended that I could not stand. The 
Carolinian, with his friend, approached me, 
saying, 

" Gentlemen, I am the challenged party, 
and I have a right to continue the fight till 
the challenge is withdrawn. There must 
be another shot ; and, as I seek no advan- 
tage, tie my legs together, and lay us side 
by side, or put the muzzles of our pistols to 
each other's breasts. The dog must die !" 

Was he not game ? My wound, some- 
how, became suddenly very painful, and 
my challenge, from necessity, was with- 
drawn. The next day Louise received 
the following : 



TO LOUISE. 



WE MET AS STRANGERS. 



We met as strangers ; but thy star-lit face | ,< 

Long, long ago, and oftentime, I'd seen ; 
In its soul-speaking features I could trace 

The image sweet of boyhood's early dream, • 
My waking fancy oft had pictured thee, 

And loved thee, too, as one of fairy birth, .- 1 

Not dreaming that familiar one could be ( 

A native mortal child of this sad earth, 
#*'•#.'' '■& 

We met as strangers ! Lady, when we 'part. ; 

Not as a stranger from me wilt thou go, 
With thee must travel still my absent heart, . j 

And mine, alas ! will be a double wo ! 
■*-*#'* 

We parted soon ; but oh, if ever o'er 

Thy mem'ry's joyous stream one thought of me 
Should glide, think of me as one no more, 

Whose viewless spirit still is following thee ! 
And if some time, perchance, in after years, 

Thy eye, in pensive mood, should meet my name, 
More dear will be the tribute of thy tears 

To me, than all the laureled meed of fame ! 

* * * : # 

Thy tears ! alas, was ever woman known i 

To shed a kindly tear or heave a sigh 
For those whose cruel lot stern fate has thrown ' 

Where perils and where hardships thickest lie? 
We met as strangers ! As a stranger soon 

You coldly bade me from your thoughts depart, 
Refusing, e'en when begged, the common boon j 

Of friendly habitation in your heart ; 
Not carirlg, as in cold and proud disdain- 

You sent me forth and doubly barred the door, : 
What keen and ever-during, fiery pain , ' • 

You planted deep within my bosom's core ! 
We met as strangers ; and a stranger I 

Must still forever be to one like thee. 
For naught that's noble can thy haughty eye i 

Discern in unpretending friends like me ; 
Nor can you see how we can ever feel, 

Or sigh, or writhe, or with keen anguish a 
When through our souls, like barbed and pointed 
steel, 

Of wanton scorn, you drove the poisoned dart, 

* * + '.*;.,. 

We met as strangers ! Thus the high and low 

In worldly fortune here must ever meet. 
Between them must a trackless ocean flow . 

O'er which their kindred hearts can rarely 
The wise, adventurous men do often sail 

From coast to coast, and mingle frank and, free; 
But women, land-bound, timid, proud, and frail, 

Still clings to her own narrow coterie, 
And thinks that all beyond this petty state ' ' 

Are outside savages, a barb'rous race,' 
'Gainst whom to nourish constant spite and hate 

Are exemplary acts of Christian grace ! 
* * * #. 

We met as strangers ; and henceforth shall all 

The glare-caught race (whom not a 'few have 
thought ■. n 

As soulless as they're heartless since the, fajl), , , r 

With all their whims, forever be forgot. , , , ■ . - 
They not unwisely think who deem them' toys, 

The pretty playthings of an idle hour ; : 
But strangers to those higher, ]astingjays>-iJ>>' 

That should engage for long, man's nobjerj^wei" ; 
Unworthy of that love, so pure, sublime,, , , - , ■ 

Celestial product of diviner moulds, j 
That fervid glow immortal, which no time 

Can ever dim or quench in manly souls : ' 
That passion which in genius can inspire ; 

These deathless thoughts, those deeds, ,of , high, 
renown, ,,, 

Which, writ in characters of living fire, 

Through coming ages will undimm'dgb'down; 
Reflecting o'er its consecrated name , , [■ •, t 

A glorious halo, while 1 those petty souk, 




ALAMANCE. 



Ill 



Who thought its love and adoration shame, 
Have long been sleeping in forgotten dust ! 

And yet, when on thy sylphlike form I gaze, 
And see how far above thy sex thou art, 

I mourn to think an angel's gracious face 

Should grace proud woman's selfish, sordid heart." 

This offering, like all the others from 
1 the same votary, fell on an altar of stone, 
and the author disappeared — perhaps to 
pine in some sequestered vale, and drop 
into an early grave — perhaps to become a 
desolate wanderer over the earth — or, per- 
haps, to don the soldier's harness and be- 
come the iron chief of some ruthless band. 
To tell the truth, I now had my wits too 
much employed to think of the hapless 
disciple of the tuneful nine. One by one 
the lovers of Louise dropped off, her fe- 
male acquaintances began to shun her ; and, 
finally, otd Duncan Stuart himself became 
suspicious. Fearing every hour that the 
old lion would set one of his cubs upon 
me, or demand an explanation of my in- 
tentions towards Louise, that good girl cut 
the Gordian knot of my difficulties by 
taking it into her head to disappear. It is 
needless to speak of the passionate grief 
of the brave sons for their adopted sister, 
or of the anguish that smote the old man's 
heart ; still more useless to speak of my 
own desolate feelings. I mingled my tears 
with those of the Stuarts, and my only 
source of consolation was found in visits 
to my relatives, and frequent pilgrimages 
to Glen-Muise, my unknown cottage on 
the Clarendon. With Louise all Stuart's 
good fortune seemed to leave him ; and as 
I was also very sad. and somewhat short 
of funds, I had recourse to cards for amuse- 
ment, and protection from my melancholy 
humours. The young men became fond 
of the sport ; they bet high, and so did I. 
These young gentlemen were patterns of 
honesty* and generosity ; -they had the 
princely habit of spending freely, and I 
the noble trait of claiming my winnings. 
Hence money, plate, jewels, and negroes 
vanished ; and, as I disliked to see a good 
man in distress, I also took my leave. 
During all this time the search for Louise 
was continued ; and while one of the young 
bloodhounds was impertinently nosing out 
my sweet cottage, to which I had fled from 
the bustle of the world and the iniquity of 
men, he was suspected of being a Tory 
spy, and arrested. I, a notorious Royalist, 
wrote to the Rebels who held young Stu- 
art in custody, threatening, in his behalf, 
the vengeance of the crown, and declaring 
that he was my most particular friend. Of 
course my letter only increased the indig- 
nation for Stuart; and as he was a gentle- 
man, he escaped only by the loss of all his 
little estate. 

When the war between England and 
her colonies was on the eve of breaking 
out, I found it expedient to leave my neigh- 
bourhood. Feigning employment in the 



royal service, I started westward ; and, 
falling in with Nathan Glutson at Ala- 
mance, that jewel of a man treated me so 
.kindly and deferentially, that I concluded 
to remain with him. My letter, which I 
handed him at your father's Christmas par- 
ty, was a mere sham, for I had then been 
at Glutson's several days. I wished to 
see this meeting of the Alamancers, and I 
took the mode above mentioned of getting 
a glimpse of your people, and of seeing 
for myself what they were about. Now 
this Glutson seemed a most zealous Roy- 
alist, and so desirous was he of the success 
of my mission that he gave me a written 
description of the character, manners, 
standing, and feelings of all his neighbours. 
He was particularly desirous that I should 
see old Mayfield ; and even went so far 
as to send with me his hopeful son, Will- 
iam, whom he caused to apologize to May- 
field and his family for an unpleasant oc- 
currence that had taken place a few days 
before. Thus was I introduced to Edith, 
and at once my wicked heart was fired 
with the most fiendish passions. She was 
artless, tender, and full of sentiment ; her 
eyes were dark, her complexion brunette, 
and her lips large and luscious ; and thus I 
thought she would be an easy conquest. 
Besides, I was a stranger, a mysterious 
character, a foreigner, an officer, and an 
enemy to her country and her people, and 
these, surely, I thought, make an easy 
road to any lady's heart. To my surprise, 
I found that the little vixen disliked me 
first, and slightly because I was a foreign- 
er and rather outre in my appearance. -Her 
dislike became disgust, as she quickly read 
my character ; and, oh ] wonder of won- 
ders ! she even detested me when she 
learned that I wished to cut the throats 
of all her friends, sweetheart and father 
included ! Gracious heavens ! I began to 
think I was dreaming, or had been trans- 
planted to another world. Over and over 
she rejected me, until at last I began to 
think there was one virtuous, rational, and 
sensible woman in the world. I had long 
looked in vain for such a one ; and, not 
finding her, became confirmed in villainy, 
and determined never to marry. Edith, 
however, shook this determination, and 
(you may believe me or not) I became sin- 
cerely desirous of wedding her. I believed 
that I had found the rarest and most pre- 
cious gem on earth, and every day this 
opinion grew upon me ; every day my love 
for Edith increased. Ay, love ; for I had 
now found a chaste woman, with a heart, 
a soul, and a mind, and I was obliged to 
love her. The character of this little Ala-, 
mancer astounded me ; her beauty charmed 
me ; and so, with honest purposes, and in 
my most winning manner, I laboured hard 
to obtain her consent to our union. She 
refused me with less and less gentleness, 



"112 



ALAMANCE. 



until at last her hatred was so obvious that 
ten thousand devils were roused up within 
me. I resolved to ruin her; to seduce 
her, to win her affections, and then turn 
her off to perish. My plan was, to steal 
her from her father, carry her to an old 
aunt of mine, and there endeavour to get 
her consent to our marriage. If she re- 
fused I would force her ; and, without the 
knowledge of any one, employ a scoundrel 
to personate a clergyman and unite us. 
After the honeymoon she should be carried 
to Glen-Muise-; and while she was admir- 
ing this elegant retreat, its real mistress, 
the concealed muse, should come out, em- 
brace me, and turn Edith out of doors, I 
approving, and showing the girl how she 
had been deceived and ruined. These 

were my plans and are still. 

* # # # 

Heaven and earth ! the bird has escaped 
the fowler ! Edith is gone ! The above 
pages, Mr. Warden, were written weeks 
ago, audi intended, at my leisure, to finish 
my own history, and also that of Louise, 
for the amuseinent and instruction of pos- 
terity. I thought that if Edith were vir- 
tuous, and a woman, such as woman ought 
to be, I had a perfect right to try to make 
her my wife ; that if she were not such as 
you and I supposed her, I would be ren- 
dering you a service by victimizing her. 
I once thought no woman worthy of you 
or me ; but I now know that Edith is, and 
a hell is raging within me because I know 
you are more worthy of her than I, and, 
therefore, may be more likely to get her. 
I must pursue, and if I take her we will 
die together, and if there is a heaven she 
will find it. /cannot be worsted, even in 
a lake of everlasting fire. The good spirit 
has triumphed in saving Edith — my occu- 
pation's gone, and I must try another 
world, if there be one ; and if there is not, 
I will at least be out of this cursed one, 
where the star of my friend, the devil, is 
on the wane !" 




CHAPTER XLIII. 

From the time that Henry Warden left 
her, he was never absent a moment from 
the thoughts of Lucy Neal. His looks, 
when she first saw him, his dress, and all 
. 1 iiat he ever said or did in her presence, 
became fixed indelibly in her memory. 
The books which they had read were 
thenceforward invested with a new and 
peculiar interest, and the scenes they had 
visited together excited in her feelings 
akin to those that swell within the classic 
scholar's breast when wandering by the 
site of ancient Delphi, or that burn within 
the pious pilgrim's heart as he strays over 
the sacred hills of Judaea. Raised up in 



seclusion, and having never, until she met 
with Warden, seen a human being beyond 
the circle of her own family, who excited 
in her a tender emotion, all the hoarded 
affections of her young heart, fresh, pure, 
and fervent, were lavished on him. It 
was not mere love in its ordinary sense, 
implying only passion or kind esteem, 
which he had caused within her ; it was 
an intense devotion, a concentration of all 
the soft and tender sentiments of which 
our nature, in its purest state, is capable. 
She found in him an only brother ; he was 
the first friend she had ever known to es- 
teem ; her first companion, entertaining 
and instructive, with sympathies in unison 
with her own ; the first hero, wit, scholar, 
and man of intellect she had seen to ad- 
mire ; the first young, amiable, and polished 
gentleman of refined sensibilities who had 
ever kindled a fond glow in her ardent and ' 
stainless breast. A new era had dawned 
on her hitherto quiet and passionless ex- 
istence ■; she seemed to have awakened in 
a new world, where the mountains and 
the flowers, the stars and the moon had 
vanished, and where all beautiful things 
were but the reflection of an absent face — 
all sweet sounds were the soft whispers 
of his voice. Her only happiness was to 
think of him — her daily occupation to ram- 
ble over the places where he had been, 
visit every day the rustic bower and the 
tree on which her name was carved, read 
constantly the verses he had written for 
her, and to take hourly from her bosom 
the handkerchief he had left her. She 
never reasoned on the nature of her pas- 
sion, nor once reflected on what might he 
its ultimate consequences. She set no 
particular time for her marriage, she laid 
no plans for her future life ; she knew she 
could not live without Henry Warden, and 
she expected him to return, and this was 
the extent, of her reasoning on the subject. 
The present was a blank to her, and she 
lived only in that hour when she would 
see him again ; and thus, day by day, and 
hour by hour, he was becoming dearer and 
dearer to her, till her soul was, as it were, 
transfused into his spirit, and her existence 
became a part of his. Weeks, long, dull, 
and tiresome weeks, had passed away, and 
Lucy began to look for his return. Meas- 
uring his impatience and judging his de- 
sires by her own, she had concluded that 
he would not be absent longer than he 
was compelled to be by the calls of duty. 
She allowed so many days for his passage 
to Alamance, a very few for his stay-there, 
and a certain number for his return. When 
the computation was out, and another day 
had passed away, Lucy retired to rest with 
a light heart, thinking the morrow would 
bring her friend. The morrow came and 
went, and now that he had had two extra 
days to allow for contingencies, she was 



ALAMANCE. 



113 



sure she would see him before another 
sunset. The sun did rise and set again, 
and her heart began to be shaded with its 
first disappointment. At night she was 
sitting at a window by the parlour fire, 
gazing at the cold, full, bright winter moon, 
as she moved with slow and lonely grand- 
eur over the blue fields of ether, palling, in 
her royal progress, all lesser luminaries, 
which were lost in the unmatched splen- 
dours of their queen. She observed, far 
up in the heavens, a small, solitary, and 
exceedingly lustrous star, that twinkled 
with a soft and te/nder light, the brightest 
and the sweetest gem on the constellated 
robe of night. With girlish simplicity she 
called it her star, and watched it till it fled 
and vanished at the approach of the gor- 
geous sovereign' of the night. Lucy sigh- 
ed as its modest face was hid, and began 
to conjure up a train of sad reflections, 
when voices at the gate filled her with 
tumultuous emotions. Darting instantly 
to her toilet, she there, with unspeakable 
pleasure, heard , her father welcoming 
M'Bride to the shelter of his roof and the 
hospitality of his board ; and as her door 
was partly ajar, she watched with intense 
interest as the guests came in. When all 
were in she listened for the mention of 
Warden's name, till she found he was hot 
of the company. She came out at length, 
and, after an introduction to those whom 
she had not before seen, her heart almost 
bounded out of her breast when she heard 
her father enquire for Henry Warden. 
M'Bride first told his story in regard to 
Edith, giving a short sketch of her adven- 
tures, and then Ben Rust briefly related 
the situation of Henry Warden and of his 
family. At the conclusion of Ben's nar- 
rative, Lucy felt that Henry was a thousand 
times dearer to her than he had ever been, 
and her heart swelled- with pride at the 
consciousness of its love for one in dis- 
tress, and one, perhaps, deserted by all 
others. She was even made happy by 
his wretchedness ; for, " Oh !" thought she, 
" how tenderly will I wait upon him, how 
passionately will I cling to him, and how 
astonished and delighted he will be at my 
devotion." Forthwith she began to build 
castles in the air, imagining all sorts of 
troubles for her friend, and placing him in 
the most perilous straits, where .all the 
world was against him, and where, with 
ineffable love, she would fold him to her 
spotless breast and bear him beyond his 
dangers to some Elysian home where she 
would spend her blissful life in making 
him forget his early trials ! 

Edith did not fail to scan, it may be said, 
with a critic's eye, the features and form 
of Lucy Neal, of whom she had heard so 
much. M'Bride, partly from a desire to 
make her feel for her former neglect of 
Warden, partly to try her heart; and, it 
H 



may have been, affected to some extent 
by real admiration, had told her much 
about Lucy — had drawn her portrait with 
a master's hand, and had not failed to 
speak in exaggerated terms of the impres- 
sion she immediately made on Warden. 
When, therefore, Edith heard these things, 
and reflected on what might have been 
Warden's feelings towards herself when 
he left Alamance, and on the effect of his 
long absence from her ; and when she re- 
membered, also, that when he first met 
with Lucy he was wounded and dejected, 
and that in this condition he was left with 
her for his only companion, she began to 
feel a pang, compared with which her 
other sorrows were light. She was, as 
may Well be supposed, anxious to see this 
mountain beauty, and when she did see 
her, her own ill-boding fancy multiplied 
and heightened her charms. Indeed, each 
of the ladies thought the other the hand- 
somest she had ever seen ; and, although 
they were entire contrasts, each was such 
a model of her kind that the other wished 
herself like her rival. The lily was still 
fresh and wearing its richest bloom in the 
cheeks of Lucy ; her short, light tresses, 
still hung in girlish confusion about her 
face and neck, and her soft, bright-blue 
eyes still beamed with an expression earn- 
est and happy. The rose had faded in 
Edith's face, whose paleness was height- 
ened by the raven hue of her luxuriant 
hair, and lighted with a touching beauty by 
her dark eyes fringed with long silken 
lashes, and whose v tender, melancholy 
sparkle seemed half" extinguished by an 
ever- rising tear. In the manners of the 
one the light-hearted ease, the innocent 
gayety, and half- frolic humour, the quick 
elastic step, and the merrily ringing laugh 
of the joyous and careless girl were still 
remaining ; while those of the other dis- 
played the graceful dignity, the sober pro- 
priety, the repose and sad serenity of one 
whom sorrow had made a woman before 
her time. Envy, hatred, and jealousy were 
passions that found no place in the heart of 
Edith ; yet she was mortal, and subject to 
mortal infirmities. She did not actually 
dislike Lucy, but she was averse to the 
formation of an intimacy with her ; while 
the latter, suddenly delighted with her new- 
acquaintance, was disposed at once to be- 
come communicative and even confiden- 
tial. Attributing her reserve to her sor- 
rows, Lucy taxed her powers to entertain 
her, and chattered away nearly the whole 
of the night to the silent and abstracted 
companion who lay by her side. The 
earliest beams of the morning sun found 
Lucy again awake, and, leaning over her 
now sleeping friend, her heart was touched 
as she saw the marks of recent tears on 
Edith's cheeks. She was still watching 
over her when the latter awoke, and, ten- 



114 



ALAMANCE. 



derly kissing and embracing her, and soon 
adjusting her own simple toilet, assisted 
her companion to dress, talking kindly and 
sweetly to her all the while, and endeav- 
ouring to revive her drooping spirits by 
lively descriptions of the scenes and nov- 
elties she would see in the mountains. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

" And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee nor 
to return from following after thee : for whither thou 
goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge : 
thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. 
Where thou diest I will die, and there will I be bu- 
ried. The Lord do so to me, and more also if aught 
but death part me and thee." Ruth. 

" Leaving the cause for the discussion and 
determination of psychologists, I can only 
relate the fact that Lucy Neai became 
wonderfully fond of Edith Mayfield. Per- 
haps it was because the sorrows of the good 
and beautiful endear them to the generous 
heart; perhaps it was because Edith was 
from Alamance, or was the first intelli- 
gent and accomplished lady Lucy had ever 
seen ; perhaps the mystery that hung about 
her, her meekness, the sweetness of her 
temper, her failing health, and the celes- 
tial light that began to beam from her face 
and seemed to mark her as not long for 
earth, won upon Lucy's heart. Certain it 
is, Lucy began to love Edith as a sister, 
anticipated all her wants with the most 
tender solicitude, and exerted herself to 
the utmost to make her happy. She almost 
entirely neglected the rest of us, and, with 
Edith, went rambling about over the hills 
and mountains ; watched over her when she 
slept, and would have forced upon her al- 
most every thing she had that was rare 
and valuable. As these two were, there- 
fore, constantly together, my friend Cap- 
tain Demijohn, gloomy, taciturn, and ab- 
stracted, and, as Benjamin Rust and Nannie 
Scott began to find great entertainment in 
each other, I was left entirely to the so- 
ciety of our host, Abraham Neal. We 
had much discourse together upon men 
and things, and my time was pleasantly 
passed." 

Thus does the master begin the narrative 
of certain incidents which we will now pro- 
ceed, in a briefer manner, to relate to the 
reader. Lucy spoke often to Edith about 
Henry Warden, frequently quoted his re- 
marks on various subjects, and was every 
day pointing out the scenes which he had 
admired. Strange to say, however, the 
mountains and all they contained became 
daily more and more distasteful to Edith, 
and she passionately longed to return to Ala- 
mance. She soon guessed at the state of 
Lucy's feelings ; and, taught by her mis- 
fortunes to condemn herself in all things, 
she was not long in concluding that Lucy 
was not to blame. She even went so far 



as to forgive Warden, and to look upon his 
conduct as perfectly justifiable. She put 
the case to herself; she imagined, or tried 
to imagine, what would have been her 
feelings had she been treated as Warden 
was ; and. then she looked at Lucy Neal, 
her beauty, her innocence, her simplicity, 
intelligence, and, above all, her candour, 
confidence, and goodness, and she con- 
cluded that, under all the circumstances, it 
would have been folly in Warden to have 
slighted so fair a prospect of happiness for ' 
one so remote. True, her conduct had been 
prescribed by her father, but then Warden 
did not know it, and must have thought 
her inconsistent, fickle, and cruel. These 
reflections at first made her extremely 
wretched; but her great soul, at length, 
broke out resplendent from obscuring 
clouds. She believed that her destiny was 
fixed — that all her once-cherished hopes 
were blighted, and she bowed with uncom- 
plaining submission to the behests of Prov- 
idence. The scenes of the future were 
now changed, and a new train of thoughts 
occupied her mind. - Henceforth she was 
to feel little interest in her acquaintances, 
and her heart was to be fixed on high and 
noble aims. She would quit society, at 
least the society of the young and gay — 
thus she reasoned — she would succour the 
patriots, hunt out the needy and distressed, 
and spend her days and nights in works 
of charity, till her summons came to quit 
this scene, where she was not destined to 
be happy, for the shores of a brighter 
world. Thus was her plan of life marked 
out,' and, in its sublime devotion to the weal 
of others, assistance was to be rendered 
in bringing about a match between Henry 
Warden and Lucy Neal. Yet Edith wished 
to be with her mother before she put her 
heart to this last and severe test, for she 
had a mournful foreboding that it would 
hasten her flight from earth. Her strength, 
was daily failing, and, resolving at once to 
brave the dangers on the road to Ala- 
mance, she one evening told M'Bride that 
she would start next morning. The master 
found it useless to resist her inclinations, 
and so, with internal grumblings at the 
strange caprices of the sex, and his own 
singular fate, he set himself to prepare. 
Lucy was immediately closeted with her 
parents, and, without much difficulty, ob- 
tained their permission to visit Alamance. 
Edith's situation, perhaps, was the main 
cause of this permission, for the times 
w r ere dangerous and the old people loved 
their only child. This latter bounded im- 
mediately into Edith's chamber, and, throw- 
ing her arms about her, and kissing her 
over and over again, exclaimed, " And so 
we- shall not part after all!" 

"How do you mean?" asked Edith, "I 
certainly shall start to-morrow." 

"And so shall I," said Lucy, ''for fa- 



ALAMANCE. 



115 



ther and mother have already given me 
leave." 

Edith was much embarrassed at the 
rashness of her friend, and scarcely knew 
what to say. At length she asked, "Are 
you not afraid, Lucy, to be on the road at 
such a time V 

" And aint you afraid V asked Lucy in 
return ; " I am sure I shall be as safe as 
you." 

" Yes ; but, Lucy, I am going home, 
where I have not been for a long time. I 
am going to cheer and comfort my lonely 
mother, and for this I ought to brave every 
danger." 

"I have thought over every thing," an- 
swered Lucy, " and I shall not be afraid 
when I am with you." 

"Alas !" replied Edith, " that is the very 
reason why you should, for I am fated to 
bring 'misfortunes on myself and on my 
friends." 

" Please, please dotrt talk so sadly," 
said Lucy, embracing Edith; "it makes 
my heart ache to see you so melancholy." 

" I cannot, help it, Lucy ; indeed it is said 
that the shadows of approaching death are 
often thrown on the heart before it ar- 
rives." 

" Why do you speak of death ?" asked 
Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "You are 
too beautiful, too young, and good to die." 

" And do not the beautiful and the good 
often die early 1" 

"I've heard it said," answered Lucy, 
" that whom the gods love die young, but 
it seems strange and unnatural. But let 
us look on the bright side of things, and 
not distress ourselves with our own fan- 
cies." 

" Well, Lucy, suppose you were on the 
road, how would you like to ride all day 
in the cold air, without warming or eat- 
ing"?" asked Edith. 

" I shall suffer for nothing when talking 
to you," was the reply. 

" Suppose you have to sleep on the 
ground?" 

" I shall sleep soundly and snugly in 
) r our bosom." 

" Suppose we are taken prisoners V 

" Suppose the sky falls," exclaimed Lucy, 
laughing — " it's needless to make any 
further suppositions, for I am a spoiled 
child, and must have my way." 

" Lucy," said Edith, seriously, " you do 
not know what you are about. There are 
a hundred difficulties in the way, and you 
must not go with us." 

Lucy gazed earnestly at her companion 
for a minute, and then, the tears falling 
fast, replied 5 "I feared it would be so. I 
love you like a sister, but I see you do not 
like me, and wish to get rid of me. Thus 
it is with me ; I have no brother or sister, 
no friends or relations, and am an alien 
from the heart of every human being." 



These words, and the manner in which 
they were said, excited the astonishment 
of Edith Mayfield, and she put her arms 
about Lucy, saying, " My dear child, you 
misunderstand me. I do not despise your 
affection ; I do love you like a sister, and 
what I have said was on your own ac- 
count, and for your own good." 

Lucy's sorrows vanished in an instant, 
and she replied, with animation, " Oh, how 
happy I am now that you say you love 
me ! Dear lady, please say so again, for 
they were the sweetest words I ever heard. 
Do you really love me in fact V 

" 1 do, Lucy, and you shall be my sister." 

" I will, I will, and you shall prove me ! 
I will go with you, confide in you, and 
nurse you like a sister, and live with you 
forever." 

" What ! after I get married V 

Lucy studied a moment, and answered", 
" Why not 1 Surely you will not cast me 
off when you marry." 

" Certainly I would not ; but suppose you 
yourself get married ?" 

" I could not love my husband if he did 
not like you," replied Lucy, with great sim- 
plicity. 

"Perhaps, after all, Lucy," said Edith, 
" you only want to go to Alamance to see 
Henry Warden." 

A crimson flush flew over Lucy's face 
and neck ; but, quickly recovering, she re- 
plied, with an earnest look, " I would in- 
deed be glad to see Mr. Warden, and hope 
we'll meet him on the road ; but, Edith, 
if you think my affection for yod is all 
feigned, you do my heart gross injustice. 
But I see that you cannot like me. Well, I 
will ever love you, and think of you, and 
pray for you ; and, though you despise me 
now, I hope we will meet, in heaven, when 
I know you will love me, because then 
you will see my heart." 

Edith's heart incited at these words, and, 
taking the hand of her friend, she said, 
with unusual fervour, " Forgive me, my 
dear, sweet sister, forgive me. You are 
my sister — I this day adopt you as such, 
and will forever love you as such. You 
shall go with me, and you shall see if I do 
not prove to be your best friend." 

They mingled their tears together now, 
and were more free and confidential than 
they had ever been before. Edith did 
really love Lucy; and, able no longer to 
continue her reserve, she gave full play to 
the feelings of her heart. On the other 
side, Lucy, fairly beside herself with ex- 
travagant joy, would every minute stop in 
the midst of her preparations for the jour- 
ney, to give utterance to some happy fancy, 
or sketch some bright scene in her antici- 
pated life with Edith. It was agreed be- 
tween the two friends that they would 
spend their winters at Alamance and their 
summers in the mountains ; but each con- 



116 



ALAMANCE. 



cealed a part of the pictured future, that 
which Lucy hid being, in fact, the sun that 
was to light that future, while Edith con- 
cealed a profound sorrow that was to throw 
a shade over all her enjoyments. In every 
sketch which the)' - drew, Lucy's joy was 
secretly heightened by that hidden sun — 
Edith's darkened b3~ the presence of a sad 
remembrance.' 

Uncle Corny was not over-pleased at 
the sudden interest which Edith seemed 
to take in Lucy ; for her silence, sadness, 
and abstraction had afforded some conso- 
lation to him. He now found that he was 
alone, without a proper companion for his 
journey; so situated was black Ben, and 
so was M'Bride, who set out upon the 
road with his mind fully made up to turn 
Turk on the first opportunity. His remarks 
on the road, if not out of place in a work 
like this, would afford infinite amusement 
to the reader. It should be added, how- 
ever, that before the party started for Ala- 
mance, Abraham Neal took the master 
aside and thus addressed him : " Mr. 
M'Bride, I am going to intrust you with 
an important charge, and though I have 
the very fullest confidence in your integ- 
rity and honour, I feel as 7acob did when 
committing Benjamin to the care of his 
brethren, when they were going down to 
Egypt" for corn. His son was not dearer 
to the old patriarch than is my daughter 
to me and to her mother. She is the light 
of our house, the joy of our hearts ; she is 
young, she is tender and innocent. She is 
going with Edith Mayfield to Alamance, 
and when the winter is over at your hands 
will I look to find her bright and beautiful 
as the spring." 

" Excepting all unavoidable accidents," 
answered M'Bride, " may God do so to me, 
and more also, if I return her not as she 
now is. I may bring a company with me — 
at all events I will come myself, and, may 
be, shall here spend the summer." 

" You will delight me if you do," said 
Neal ; " and when you bring Lucy safely 
back, I will tell you something about her 
that may interest you." 

" And why not tell me now ?" asked the 
master, always curious about such things. 

" It would, perhaps, not be proper," re- 
plied the other. " 1 can only say there is a 
singular history connected with her, and 
this, as well as her many virtues, renders 
her peculiarly dear to us, and makes your 
charge a most precious one." 

"Was there ever a woman's history that 
was not a tissue of strange events 1 thought 
the master, but he held his peace. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

EVENTS HASTEN TO THEIR CONCLUSION. 

When Henry Warden left Alamance the 
last time, he made his way directly to the 



head-quarters of General Greene, and there 
found his father bearing arms. The stir- 
ring events which followed, crowding in 
quick succession on each other, dissipated 
his melancholy for a while, and fully en- 
gaged his thoughts. In fact, he was now 
a witness of and a participator in scenes, 
which, were they here recorded, would 
throw an air of romance over the perform- 
ance, and cause many an infidel reader to 
look oil the whole book as a fiction. On 
this account, and because also the under- 
taking would be too extensive, we must 
pass rapidly over incidents which, it is 
hoped, some local historian will yet res- 
cue from fast-coming oblivion. 

A crisis in the war had now arrived. 
Both sides, anxious to put an end to the 
protracted struggle, exasperated, and, per- 
haps, rendered vindictive by the hardships 
and casualties' incident to long-pending 
hostilities, were now rallying their enfee- 
bled energies for a great and final effort. 
L On the one side were a thirst for ven-. 
geance and for glory, and the stings of 
mortified pride and baffled ambition ; on 
the other, the courage of despair, the for- 
titude and unconquerable determination 
inspired by the memory of past injuries, 
and by the consciousness of being mar- 
tyrs in a holy cause. Lord Cornwallis, 
the commander of the British forces in the 
south, and a brave and accomplished offi- 
cer, dreading the effects of time, and know- 
ing the weakness of his adversary, was 
anxious for a speedy engagement ; and, to 
bring it about, displayed all the masterly 
qualities of a great commander. He had, 
however, to deal with an antagonist who 
was equal to any emergency, and whose 
energies multiplied as dangers thickened 
around him. Wary, fearless, and untiring, 
patient of toil, fertile in expedients, skilled 
in all the arts of war, and animated with 
an intense love for his country — with a 
judgment always clear, quick, and com- 
prehensive, and a manner ever cheerful, 
placid, and decisive, General Greene was 
an over-match for any officer in the En- 
glish service. For some time he and his 
great antagonist were manoeuvring, march- 
ing, and counter-marching — one seeking, 
the other avoiding a collision. The Brit- 
ish troops, well clothed and well fed, long 
inured to the severities of the soldier's 
life, and spurred on by hopes of gain and 
distinction, were not so severely tried 
as those on the American side. It was in 
the middle of an unusually cold and stormy 
winter that these operations were carried 
on, and the American army was almost 
totally deficient in camp equipage and ne- 
cessary clothing. They often lay upon 
the bare ground, with the broad heavens 
for their covering, or, as was most usually 
the case, the clouds, from which descend- 
ed, on their shivering and unsheltered bod- 



ALAMANC E. 



m 



ies, rain, snow, and sleet. They would, 
sometimes, go for thirty-six hours without 
tasting food of any kind ; many of them 
were half naked, and great numbers were 
barefooted, and could be tracked by the 
stains of blood from their feet, cut and 
lacerated by the hard and frozen earth. 
Thus hungry, cold, and toil-worn, the ici- 
cles sometimes hanging from their beards 
and clothes, day and night, these men were 
marching, floundering through swamps, 
and wading swollen creeks. They were 
in this condition, too, in the midst of their 
own fruitful country. They saw others, 
opposed to that country, living on it in 
ease and security ; and the wan and hag- 
gard soldier often passed in view of his 
own plantation, desolated by the ravages 
of his nearest neighbour. At the head of 
this host was a chief whose mighty spirit 
was diffused among officers and men, and 
all orders were obeyed with a cheerful 
and ready submission. It was during this 
trial of skill between the commanders-in- 
chief, that patriot leaders of lesser note 
were daily performing deeds of prowess, 
and executing well-laid stratagems, any 
one of which would afford material for a 
handsome novelette. The middle counties 
were the scene of these adventures, and, 
could they but speak, every hill, and vale, 
and brook would tell of some deed of hor- 
ror, or of some gallant achievement. Ala- 
mance, especially, became noted for these 
adventures ; and towards that ancient 
community, as a focus, the strifes of the 
country seemed converging. Great armies 
marched and hovered about it, and from 
every quarter armed parties traversed 
through it. All the elements of war were 
now in motion. It raged in the field and 
by the fireside, and spent its fury on man, 
on womah, on children, and on brutes. 
Every man to be seen by day or at night, 
in the woods or the fields, was on some 
hostile and plundering errand. Every fe- 
male was bewailing some loss, or flying 
from some danger. Every living thing 
was in a state of alarm, and the air was 
thick and humid with the smoke of camp- 
fires and burning plantations. Rumour, 
with her thousand tongues, was multiply- 
ing and exaggerating the terrors and ca- 
sualties of the times ; and the weak and 
timid spoke in half-whispers, and went 
each night to bed shuddering at some re- 
cent tale of horror. Even the commander- 
in-chief of the British forces committed as 
much destruction as he could in supplying 
his army ; and his progress, like the flight 
of eastern locusts, carried terror before it, 
and left desolation and famine behind. Yet 
his lordship did not do these things with 
impunity ; for both he and his more savage 
subordinates were not seldom lectured by 
the good dames of Alamance and of other 
places, who bestowed upon them more 



catholic sermons and evangelical denun- 
ciations of tribulation and wrath to come 
than they had heard since the beginning 
of the war. His lordship, however, was 
a gentleman, and suffered himself patiently 
to be denounced; but some there were, 
holding commissions in his army, whose 
unmanly cruelty and resentment brought 
a lasting infamy on themselves, and on 
the cause in which they were engaged. 
If we knew their names we would give 
them for the eternal execration of every 
honourable mind. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES. 

On one occasion, just after'the various 
corps of the British army had encamped 
for the night, a scouting party captured 
two females and a negro man ; and, in the 
absence of their commander, undertook to 
have some sport. One of the women was 
somewhat elderly, plain-looking, and mas- 
culine, and her only concern seemed to be 
for the timid and girlish companion, who 
hung tremblingly by her arm, concealing 
her face. 

" I say, my pretty mistress," said one 
of the men, taking hold of the girl, " I 
wish to see that sweet face of yours. It 
was not made to be hid." 

" Stand off, you scurvy knave !" exclaim- 
ed the elder lady, striking the soldier in 
the face. 

" Well done, beldame ! hurra, she-devil !" 
shouted his companions, pulling back the 
discomfited soldier, and forming a ring 
round the women. 

The heroine who had dealt the blow, 
now stood, with her arms folded, facing 
her enemies, and exhausting on them all 
the terms of abuse in the English language, 
while her terrified companion clung to her 
dress, crying, "Oh, for Heaven's sake, hush, 
or they'll kill us, they'll kill us !" These 
cries ^vere in vain; for the stout woman 
continued her harangue, much to the edi- 
fication of a portion of her hearers, who 
rewarded her with frequent bursts of ap- 
plause, some shouting " Mount her on a 
stump !" and some, " Put her in boots and 
breeches!" ' 

" Ah, marry come up ! If I was a man, 
with a sword at my side, I could chase you 
all into the sea, you cowardly villains, you 
sniveling scoundrels, you dirty puppies, 
you red-coated rampscallions !" 

" Three cheers for that !" shouted the 
men. 

" Yes ; you may give cheers to keep 
your courage up, you sneaking cur-dogs! 
General Greene and General Washington 
will get hold of you soon, and I hope 
they'll skin you like a parcel of eels, and 
then pickle you like pork, you dastardly 



118 



ALAMANCE. 



rogues ! you robbers, burglars, murderers, 
thieves, assassins, and pirates !" 

" Look here, old witch," said one of the 
soldiers, "you mustn't make any reflec- 
tions on our honour, or we might do you 
some damage." , 

" ' Our honour V '" exclaimed she, "as if 
there was honour among such filthy vaga- 
bonds, such rotten scum ! Where are the 
mothers that bore you, where are your 
wives and sisters, that you must run about 
the country murdering children, abusing 
helpless women, and robbing, burning, and 
playing the mischief? What harm have 
we ever done to you ? what grudge "'' 

" None at all," 'said one of the men, 
* except in being so d — d ugh*.' 5 

" Ugly, am 1, you son of perdition % 
Ugly, am I, fou stinking buzzard 1 ? I had 
rather be ugly than be a liar, a thief, a cow- 
ard, rind a strolling vagabond, fighting other 
people's battles, having my back tanned 
eveiy morning by my master's cowhide, 
and covered over with vermin, filth, and 
rottenness, and stinking so vileh' that the 
very buzzards wouldn't touch me, though 
ever so hungry !" 

"That's a whopper," exclaimed the stout- 
est man in the company ; " and, to show 
you that I think you beautiful as Queen 
Dulcinea, I'm going to kiss you in spite of 
your teeth, if you've got any. Clear the 
way, boys !" 

The girl again implored and entreated 
her friend not to be so violent. " Oh, do 
please ask them for mercy," she cried, in 
an agony of alarm, " or they'll murder and 
ruin us ! For God's sake, for my sake, 
and your own, speak kindly to them !" 

" Stand off, child," said the other, " and 
let me alone. Now come up, you banter- 
ing villain, and try your tricks on me." 
At this, as the man came towards her, she 
let fly into his face, and upon his head and 
breast, a succession of well-airned and 
powerful blows, which speedily brought 
the soldier senseless to the earth. 

At the same instant a voice behind them 
exclaimed, " What new row's this, you 
besotted knaves ?" and, the men, turning 
round, were abashed by the presence of 
two mounted officers. " "Will you forever 
disgrace yourselves, and the proud name 
of air English soldier, b}- your infamous 
debauches ?" asked the eider officer. " You 
shall suffer for this, for I know you all. 
Come hither, good woman, and tell me 
who brought you here, and what has been 
done to you." 

This was addressed to the older female, 
but" the younger, seeing that she was in 
the presence of a gentleman, walked near 
him and answered " We were going, sir, 
with that servant, whom these men have 
tied, to a neighbour's house, and were ta- 
ken near this place. No violence has 
been offered to us." 



" Then, in God's name, fair damsel, take 
your servant and friend, and go in peace ; 
and may He who guards the innocent be. 
with you !" 

" But I must ask a favour of you, sir, be- 
fore we go," said the girl, with confidence.' 

" I shall be apt to grant any favour in 
my power that is asked by lips so sweet. 
How fair she looks by the light of the 
moon !" 

" My request," replied the girl, "is for 
your ear alone, good sir ; and if you will 
walk a little way with me I will make it 
known to you." 

" By Heaven, she is fj gem ! Here, Do- 
nald, hold my horse till I act the part of a 
gallant knight-errant to a maiden in dis- 
tress. Come on, my enchanted princess, 
I'm ready to swear I'll kill any giant, hip- 
pogriff, or dragon that besets your path." 

" My name," said the girl, when beyond 
the hearing of the others, " is Kate War- 
den, and that good woman with me is Mrs. 
Polly Rust, my neighbour. My brother is 
at her house, and I am going there to see 
him, and I wish you to escort us safely to 
the place." 

" By St. George, maiden, you are very 
rash !" exclaimed the officer. " Your broth- 
er is a leading rebel ; and, if I mistake not, 
a major in the service. Did you not know 
it is my duty to catch him wherever I can 
find him?" 

" I knew," answered Kate, " that you 
would kill him if 3'ou could, in a fair and 
manly fight ; but I thought the brave would 
scorn to betray the brave, ^or to molest 
them when they trusted to each other's 
honour." 

" And so they would, my pretty damsel, 
under ordinary circumstances ; but you 
must remember I am a sworn officer, and 
that my duty to my king compels me to 
arrest a traitor wherever I find him." 

" It is said a great battle is going to 
be fought soon," returned Kate Warden ; 
" and my brother wished to . see me once 
more, as he might never get another op- 
portunity. I have betrayed his life, I fear, 
and I shall never be happy again. Oh, my 
dear Henry! what will you think of my 
folly " and the poor girl began to wring 
her laanda and weep. 

" By the souls of my ancestors," said 
the officer, "you have not betrayed him. 
I will not molest him ; but I cannot go with 
you. Young maiden, you must excuse me. 
It really seems to me that the suggestions 
of your innocent heart are the true be- 
hests of that honour which I profess to be 
guided by ; and yet the world thinks not 
so. And so it is," continued he, speaking 
to himself; "we are all pursuing phan- 
toms. We profess to make honour our 
guide, and glory our end, and still we are 
ashamed to tread what we know to be, the 
path of real honour and glory. It shall 



ALAMANCE. 



119 



not be so with me, let the world say what 
it may. Young lady, I grant your request 
to its fullest extent ; and now let us be 
off." 

So saying, he led her back to his horse, 
and mounting her up behind him, and or- 
dering his companion to take up Mrs. Rust, 
, and telling the negro to lead the way, 
struck off through the woods. The older 
lady was behind the younger officer, and 
a very handsome one he was, though 
strangely ungallant. Totally forgetful of 
the face, feet, and dress of the good dame 
Rust, he would not keep the road, but 
must needs dash through the bushes to get 
alongside of his senior officer. The good 
woman sometimes uttered an ejaculation 
as her face got scratched, or a great rent 
made in her dress, and Donald M'Leod 
would make a hasty apology, and clash 
into the bushes again. He said nothing 
to Kate, noc' did she speak to him ; but 
though it was night, they became suffi- 
ciently acquainted to have recognised each 
other ten years afterwards. Arrived at 
Mrs. Rust's, the latter was profuse in her 
thanks, and Kate begged to know how she 
could return her gratitude. 

"I am overpaid by my own heart," said 
the senior ; " still, 1 hope you will believe 
me to be a gentleman according to your 
own understanding of that word." 

" And me, your faithful .servant," said 
the other. 

" Ah, Donald ! However, I'm mum," re- 
marked the senior, v/ith a laugh. 

" Gentlemen," said Kate, " here is my 
handkerchief; if you will wear it about 
you in battle, it may be of service." 

"As we can't both use it at the same 
time," replied the older gentleman, " I will 
give it to him for whom it was meant." 

"And here is mine for you, sir," said 
Mrs. Rust ; " there is virtue in it." 

" I'll keep it," answered he to whom it 
was offered, " to remind me of an honest 
deed ; but as for charms and amulets, I 
need them not. Miss Warden, you will 
please to present to yourbrother, the major, 
the compliments of Colonel Webster, and 
tell him to be off by the early dawn, or I 
cannot answer for his safety. Tell him 
also, that I should be happy to meet him 
whenever it shall please General Greene 
to choose his field. And so, my duty to 
you, ladies, and may peace be with you." 

Kate Warden did not fail to tell her 
brother all that had happened ; nor Mrs. 
Rust to express her astonishment at find- 
ing a Christian and a gentleman among 
the British. The visit of Henry -Warden 
was undertaken for a double purpose. 
He had some things of importance to 
communicate from his father to his fam- 
ily, and, labouring under a depression of 
spirits, he was extremely desirous of see- 
ing his sister and mother once more. His 



wish was in part gratified, and, after a 
most affecting interview, he took his leave 
of Kate, with a sad foreboding that he 
would see her no more. 

Hector M'Bride and his party happened, 
on this very same night, to get within the 
English camp, and all were taken prison- 
ers, except Corny Demijohn. That valiant 
knight, having the only sword in the com- 
pany, and having become a tolerable horse- 
man, cut his way through the centre of the 
camp, scorning to turn his back, and cre- 
ating among the half-sleeping soldiers a 
terrible alarm. Thinking at first that they 
were attacked by at least twenty thou- 
sand .cavalry, and seeing a huge giant, 
with a blood-dripping sword, bearing down 
through their midst, the men gathered 
their arms, and ran hither and thither in 
confusion ; the officers shouted, the drums 
rattled, and alarm-guns were fired. To 
add to the consternation, Captain Corny, 
seeing the state of things, gave a tremen- 
dous shout, and as he neared the last com- 
pany, who were under arras, he cried, 
" Surrender, you knaves, or you'll be butch- 
ered in an instant !" The men stood ir- 
resolute, half-disposed to lay down their 
arms; and Captain Demijohn was carried 
by his faithful charger beyond the reach 
of danger, having killed three men in his 
perilous passage, and caused the whole 
British army to be formed for battle. The 
officers were so much mortified at what 
had happened that they retained the ladies 
prisoners, and there is a tradition that one 
of them fell violently in love with Lucy 
Neal. Be that as it may, the prisoners 
were all handsomely treated, though their 
captivity came near breaking the hearts 
of Rust and his sable namesake. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

EVENTS STILL HASTEN ONWARD. 

" As it was now confidently expected, 
from the return from Virginia of General 
Greene, and from his aggressive move- 
ments, that a battle was inevitable, the 
scattered Whigs emerged from their hiding- 
places, and flocked to the standard of their 
leader. They hastened off from the im- 
mediate neighbourhood and from remote 
quarters, some on foot and some on horse- 
back ; some singly offering their services, 
and some in small companies, consisting 
of not more than half a dozen. They came 
with such weapons as they had with them 
in their concealment, and some of them 
without any arms at all. They came from 
caves, from swamps, and from hollow 
trees, their long beards, worn garments, 
and emaciated forms, giving them a wild 
and picturesque appearance. They knew 
little or nothing of the discipline of armies: 
and, strangers to the feelings of the trained 



120 



ALAMANCE. 



soldier, whose trade is war, they came to 
make a final stand for their homes and 
their property — to strike one blow in their 
own way for their country and its liberties. 
Of such materials consisted mainly the 
army of General Greene, the last hope of 
the patriots in the South. It was a bare, 
sickly, and ragged rout, with every species 
of rusty arms, without discipline, and part 
of it without officers, and of whom it 
might have been said by their scornful 
foes, 

' Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host, 
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.' 

In striking contrast with these were the 
enemies whom they were zealous to en- 
counter. Cornwallis, when marching to 
meet them, took Alamance in his rout ; the 
tramp of his steeds, the braying of his trum- 
pets, and the hoarse rattle of his drums 
startling the echoes of that former abodeof 
peace, while his streaming banners flouted 
proudly in the eyes of its inhabitants. As 
the women of this ancient community be- 
held, from the crowded windows and balco- 
nies, the sheen of their glittering arms, and 
their terrible train of destructive engines, 
their thoughts turning to their husbands 
and their brothers in the camp of General 
Greene, some gave way to despair; 'and 
others, lifting their eyes to heaven, mutely 
implored the aid of its avenging arm for 
their friends and country. When the array, 
in all the pomp and pride of military show, 
had passed out of view, and the sound of 
the music died away upon the distant hills, 
an awful silence followed ; the elements 
of local strife were stilled, and all eyes and 
hearts were turned, in hushed and painful 
expectation, to the scene of the approach- 
ing conflict. Confident in their well-disci- 
plined strength, despising the might of their 
adversaries, with the savage delight and 
swift fury of hungry wolves, when about 
to overtake the spoil that has long eluded 
them, the royalists hastened on to where 
their prey had made his final stand, and 
turned at bay. They found him on his well- 
chosen ground at Guilford Court House, 
calm as a summer morning, an eagle in his 
eyrie, watching with keen and steady eye 
the coming storm, and prepared to make a 
4 desperate struggle." 

This is the manner in which the master 
begins his account of the battle of Guil- 
fordj-an engagement which he witnessed 
with lively and varied emotions. He and 
his fellow-prisoners were kept under a 
small guard in the rear of the British army, 
and beyond the reach of danger ; and from 
here it was that he saw the conflict. He 
and Edith Mayfield were the only two per- 
sons in the company whose sympathies 
were in unison on that occasion. This 
latter, looking on herself as dead to love 
and to Henry Warden, and animated now 



with a holy fervour for her country and its 
liberties, awaited the issue of the struggle 
with the intensest interest. Nannie Scott 
kept her eyes on Rust, with an expression 
that showed how grateful she was that he 
was not in the strife ; and Lucy Neal, half 
dead with fright, thinking only of Henry 
Warden, shook like an aspen at every ex- 
plosion of the artillery, and fancying every 
gun was aimed at him she loved, enquired 
often and. anxiously if the battle was not 
over. As for the two Bens, they were 
nearly wild with grief — the one because he 
could not be near his old master, the other 
because he was not in the fight. None of 
the ladies could bear to look upon the field ; 
but M'Bride, who, with the Bens, stood upon 
a high rock, gave them, from time to time, 
information in regard to the progress of 
the struggle. 

" May the Almighty curse them cow- 
ards !" exclaimed Ben Rust, soon after the 
fight began ; " what a glorious sweep they 
had !" 

" Those are militia, Ben," said the mas- 
ter, " and never saw a fight before. See 
what a heap of dead they piled up at the 
first fire, and see how, like lightning, gleam 
the British bayonets which dispersed them. 
That was the first charge, and those poor 
fellows had not yet got warmed in the : 
struggle." 

" Is our side giving way V asked Edith. 

" A goodly number of them have fled 
after a single fire," answered the master, 
" and 1 fear it is impossible to retrieve the 
disaster. Yes, I believe we will yet gain 
the day, for do but see how the second 
line stands its ground. The bayonets are 
nearly on them ; and now, my gallant fel- 
lows, now's the time to show your mettle. 
Glorious ! what a terrible fire was that ! 
Gloriously done again !■ Do but behold 
how their ranks are thinned and torn!" 

" Is not the battle over ?" anxiously en- 
quired Lucy. 

" Over !" exclaimed Rust ; " If I was 
General Greene I'd pepper them till every 
red-coated knave had bit the dust or left 
the field. Oh that I was jist there, with 
my rifle !" 

" You forget where you are, young man, 1 ' 
said one of his guards to Rust. 

"I wish I could," he replied, "but if 
I've hurt your feelings I beg pardon. Na- 
tur will have its way." 

" Who now appears to have the advan- 
tage ?" asked Edith. 

" It's hard to say," answered the master, 
"for they are every where engaged, and 
the whole field is one sheet of flame. Who 
is that British officer mounted on a fine 
black charger 1 ?" 

" That," said one of the soldiers, " is 
Colonel Webster, one of the best officers 
in the service." 

" By my soul, he is showing it to-day," 



ALAMANCE. 



121 



exclaimed M'Bride ; " and he's every where 
in the thickest of the fray. Oh, God ! our 
second line is giving way. 1 cannot bear 
the sight." 

" Are we beaten V enquired Edith, 
"please look again." 

" There is yet hope," said the master, 
"for there is still another line to be at- 
tacked, the brave Continentals as 1 judge." 

" Do you see any of our friends 1" asked 
Lucy. 

" I cannot tell a man at this distance," 
replied the master ; " but I have thought 
more than once that I saw Henry Warden. 
Yes, it is he, as I live — it must be he ! Oh, 
if you could only see how gallantly he 
bears himself! There goes old Greene 
along the lines, honour and glory to his 
name ! He must be preparing for a des- 
perate effort, and now they are at it, man 
to man, and squadron to squadron. Brave 
mew, now's the time to put forth all your 
energies ! May the might of a thousand 
giants nerve your arms ! Oh, do but look 
at that noble officer! It is Washington, 
with his cavalry, and down he comes with 
an awful swoop, scattering all before him ! 
Great heavens ! I see among his men the 
huge form of Uncle Corny! His sword 
seems to be red with blood ; see, he has 
split down at least a dozen !" 

"Are we not about to gain the day 1 ?" 
again asked Edith. 

" I'll tell you when the smoke clears 
away," said the master. " Indeed," con- 
tinued he, " I do believe we are. There 
comes Washington again, like a furious 
whirlwind, and nothing stands before him. 
They falter, they are thrown in confusion. 
Victory! victory!" 

Every one but the ladies now mounted 
the rock, and watched in silence and with 
intense interest the progress of the fight. 

" Great God !" exclaimed M'Bride, at 
length, " Cornwallis is firing on his own 
men! The field is now a terrible scene, 
and the last struggle has come. There 
goes old Greene again ! What a glorious 
chief he is ! Alas ! in vain has he con- 
tested every inch : his men are falling 
back ; we are lost, we are lost !" and in 
an agony of grief the master sat down 
and covered his face with his hands. 

" They've paid dearly for their victory," 
said Rust; " and the old fox is not beaten, 
though he retreats. He goes off in good 
order with his bristles up, and growlin as 
if he wanted to try it over again." 

It was even so. The American com- 
mander, after a desperate struggle, in 
which his genius and his courage shone 
resplendent, was forced to yield a field on 
which he left dead twice as many of the 
enemy as of his own men. Had he been 
able to have maintained the combat an 
hour longer, Cornwallis, with all his army, 
would have fallen into his hands : and even 



as it was, the enemy were so entirely crip- 
pled that they commenced an immediate 
and rapid retreat, dismissing their prison- 
ers, and continuing their flight till they fell 
an easy prey at Yorktown. Thus it ever 
seemed to be with General Greene. In all 
his battles he deserved success ; but he 
was fated never to achieve a victory, but 
to win laurels for other brows. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 

At the grey dawn of the following morn- 
ing Edith Mayfield was on the field of the 
late engagement. The birds were singing 
merrily where lately the din of battle raged 
so fiercely ; but the shattered trees, the fis- 
sures in the trenched and furrowed earth, 
and the heaps of dead bodies that were 
dimly visible in the dusky twilight, still re- 
minded the visiter of the late awful pres- 
ence of war. Attracted by their groans, 
Edith sought out the living, to some of 
whom she brought water, bound up the 
wounds of others, and spoke words of con- 
solation to the dying, whose parting spirits 
she commended to the mercy of thfeir 
Giver. Several expired while she was 
with them, and, as she was dressed in 
white, they believed they saw an appari- 
tion, and their last looks were fixed on 
her, and their last words called for bless- 
ings on her head. As some of the wounded 
men had known her before, and had heard 
of her death, they confirmed the notion 
that she was a spirit, a celestial messen- 
ger of light and peace sent to relieve the 
wants and assuage the pangs of the suffer- 
ing patriots. The character of the times, 
and the sombre hue of public sentiment, 
lent credit to these opinions, even in the 
eyes of the early visiters, and thus origi- 
nated the current tradition of the Pale 
Lady, whose mission it was to heal the 
wounded in the American army, and con- 
sign the souls of the dying to a long and 
sweet repose. While she was thus en- 
gaged, and as the beams of the rising sun 
were gilding the tree-tops, she was met' 
by a young English officer, who court- 
eously saluted her, and enquired if she 
was acquainted with the father of Major 
Warden. 

" If you mean George Warden, sir, the 
father of Mr. Henry Warden, I am," an- 
swered Edith. 

" George Warden is the gentleman to 
whom I allude," said Donald M'Leod, look- 
ing at the superscription of a letter which 
he held in his hand, " and I must beg your 
assistance in the discharge of a duty which 
I owe to him. His son yesterday saved my 
life, took me prisoner, and had me released 
upon my parole, and gave me a letter to 
his father, who, it is said, was wounded in 



122 



ALAMANCE. 



the engagement. I promised Major War- 
den that I would immediately seek out the 
old gentleman, and see that his wounds 
were attended to ; but, as I do not know 
him, I will thank you to point him out to 
mo as soon as you can find him." 

By a small stream on the edge of the 
field, where the fight had been hardest, 
Edith saw Hector M'Bride seated, and ap- 
pearing to be in conversation with a man 
"who was lying on the ground, and resting 
his head on the palm of his hand. Going 
thither with the British officer, she found 
George Warden, who greeted her with 
lively demonstrations of pleasure at the 
meeting, and to whom she immediately in- 
troduced her companion. After the salu- 
tations were over, M'Bride requested his 
friend to continue the account of the battle 
which he had begun, and George Warden 
thus proceeded : " As I was about to re- 
late when these friends came up, the North 
Carolina militia poured one destructive 
fire into the ranks of the enemy, and then 
broke and fled. I am proud, however, to 
say that this inglorious example was not 
universally followed, for one company 
fought gallantly and nobly throughout the 
engagement. These were the Guilford 
militia, many of them being from our own 
Alamance, whence also came, as you know, 
their heroic commander, Captain Forbes, 
who was mortally wounded in the engage- 
ment." 

" Remember that fact," said the master, 
"and I will also put it in, my notes as a 
testimony against the charge of cowardice 
■which will be hereafter brought against all 
the militia of the state. But where was 
our friend Captain Demijohn 1 Did he 
bear himself with his accustomed gal- 
lantry." 

" He did," replied Warden ; " in fact, I 
may say he fairly eclipsed himself. As I 
have intimated before, he came up mys- 
teriously, just on the eve of battle, and 
took his station by my side in the cavalry. 
He was not in a humour for talking, and 
briefly told me that my sweet friend here, 
Edith Mayfield, yourself, Rust, and others 
were prisoners in the British army. As I 
pressed him for an account of his adven- 
tures, an explosion of cannon shook the 
greund, the chest of my friend heaved 
with emotion, his eyes flashed fire, and, 
seizing my hand, he said : ' The master 
will tell you all ; I allude to Lieutenant 
M'Bride, who will do justice to my mem- 
ory. My true and ancient friend, I am in 
the humour for blows now ; not words — I 
am for blood— the blood of the tyrants, 
and by the Eternal it shall flow to-day! 
When you return to Alamance, and are 
happy there among your friends, some- 
times remember and speak kindly of Un- 
cle Corny. Good by !' So saying he 
braced himself for the fight, and ati day 



[he was by my side in the thickest of the 
I fray, saying not a word, and laying about 
j him like a giant. In the last splendid 
charge, led by Washington, he actually 
split down eleven men, over the last of 
whom he fell himself, saying, as he fell, 
' Oh, my mother!' These were his dying 
words ; for that he is dead I have no doubt, 
as he fell near me, and 1 have often called 
to him during the night without an answer. 
Such was the end of my friend, of whom I 
may truly say, 

' In this glorious and well-foughten field 
We kept together in our chivalry.' 

Peace be to his ashes !" 

" Amen !" exclaimed the master, " and 
may God rest his soul forever ! A better 
man or a braver soldier never drew a sword 
or put a lance in rest ; but it is time to 
seek him out and bury him with becoming 
honours on the field of his glory." 

Accordingly, Warden was now conveyed 
to a neighbouring house, and left to the 
care of Edith and her female companions, 
while the master, with Rust and M'Leod, 
returned to the battle-field. The two lat- 
ter examined with great curiosity, and a 
livery interest, the scene of the engage- 
ment,, the young Englishman gratifying 
his rough companion by pointing out the 
most memorable localities, and giving a 
detailed history of \he contest. As for the 
master, now satiated with the horrors of 
war, and profoundly meditating on 
" Man's inhumanity to man," 

he went strolling about the field, with his 
hands clasped behind him, taking no no- 
tice of any one, and being, in return, no- 
ticed by none. He traversed every part 
of the field, and his reflections became 
more sad and solemn from what he now 
heard and saw around him. Weeping 
I women and children were now swarming 
! in the places so lately covered with mar- 
tial hosts glittering in the panoply of war, 
and groans, cries, and lamentations re- 
sounded through every part of the scene. 
Mothers, wives, and sisters were wailing 
i over the dead and wounded bodies of their 
' friends, husbands, and sons ; and the mas- 
ter, to whose ears, in his present mood, 
these sounds of sorrow and woe were not 
i ungrateful, became lost in thought, and al- 
most forgot himself and his friend,' for 
whose body he had commenced a search, 
I when he was suddenly and unpleasantly 
| interrupted by the voice of Rust, who ex- 
! claimed, near him, "By Jehu! if the old 
[ dame don't take a Britisher for me !" 

" I know what I am about, my son," an- 

| swered Mrs. Rust, embracing, with great 

j fervour and lively affection, the astonished 

and blushing M'Leod. "And do you think 

I could ever forget you, my darling, my 

dear child V continued she, as she releas- 

I ed the young officer, and flew upon her 



ALAMANCE. 



123 



son, overpowering him with her embraces, 
laughing and crying by turns, and address- 
ing Ben, who stood motionless and silent, 
with every kind of endearing appellation. 

" You don't seem to notice me, Mr. 
M'Bride," said a low, soft voice behind 
him ; and, turning, the master was some- 
what confused at finding Kate Warden, 
who had been standing near him, and 
whom he had not observed. His apologies 
for his neglect were kindly and graciously 
received; but he was confounded when he 
found that the blushing girl and Donald 
M'Leod, whose cheeks were also red, had 
been conversing together, and were ac- 
quainted with each other. To his inex- 
pressible mortification he heard from Mrs. 
Rust of her own and, Kate's adventure with 
the British officers; yet, touched by the 
chivalrous bearing of Colonel Webster, he 
was prompted to enquire for his fate. 

" He fell, mortally wounded," replied 
M'Leod, " and will never again see a field 
of strife." - 

" His was a noble and a gallant spirit," 
answered M'Bride, " and he fell on a bloody 
field, where his peers were few." 

"" I wish he had worn the handkerchief," 
said Polly Rust. 

" It could not have saved so brave and 
proud a man, who went into the fight to 
conquer or die," answered M'Leod. "Nev- 
ertheless, he treasures the gift, and will 
send it home to his friends, as an humble 
but honourable testimony of his humanity 
and gallantry in this long and savage war. 
No stain of cruelty will rest on his name ; 
and the last words he said to me were, 
that he hoped you, M.iss Warden, and sucli 
as you, would cherish his memory as one 
who was a gentleman and aheroinyourown 
just sense of those terms. My present," 
continued the speaker, more gaily, " served 
me to better purpose, and I must needs 
always wear it next to that grateful heart 
whose warm blood it saved from being 
spilled on this ensanguined field." 

Kate blushed crimson, and took the 
proffered arm of M'Leod, who led her off 
to see her father; and the master, who had 
hoped to find a companion in the young 
officer, fell into a train of unpleasant 
thoughts. "Thus it is." thought he; "I 
can find no man who has not had an ad- 
venture with a lady ; and even on this sad 
and impressively solemn scene, my sub- 
lime meditations must be interrupted, and 
my thoughts brought down to the ephem- 
eral concerns of giddy young mortals by 
the foolery of love-making, is there a spot 
on earth where hands are not squeezed 
and light hearts palpitate not with lasciv- 
ious emotions ■? If there is I'll find it out, 
and build me a cottage there ; but alas ! I 
shall never find the place. I have heard 
whispering, and seen blushes, around the 
couch of the dying; seen ogling done at 



prayers, and soft glances exchanged over 
the coffin as it was lowered into the grave 
Verily, I almost believe that if the last 
trump were to summons earth's grovelling 
mortals to their final dread account, fond 
looks and tokens would be exchanged, and 
lingers squeezed in the vast crowd that 
gathered round the awful tribunal of their 
Judge !" 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

On the day of the battle of Guilford 
Court House, many of the women of Ala- 
mance assembled at the house of Esther 
Bell, and joined in prayers to Heaven for 
the success of their friends. Black Dan 
had been despatched to bring early tidings 
of the fight ; and, as the sun descended in 
the west, anxiety became so intense, that 
none spoke /but with their eyes, all bend- 
ing their looks incessantly towards the 
battle-field. It was a day of doubts, of 
gloom, and horror. Even conscious na- 
ture, to the Alamancers, seemed to wear 
a grave and sombre look ; the air was thick 
and sultry, the skies were dark and threat- 
ening, the voices only of the saddest birds 
were heard, and a solemn stillness reigned 
around. At length, late in the night, the 
long-expected messenger arrived, and gave 
a full and authentic account of the engage- 
ment. As he finished, a small and aged 
lady, whose locks were as white as snow, 
and who seemed to be gradually withering 
away from earth, exclaimed, ringing her 
hands and lifting up her eyes, " O my son 
Absalom ! my son, my son Absalom, would 
to God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my 
son, my son !" It was the mother of Un- 
cle Corny who spoke ; and all, touched to 
the heart by her misfortunes, mingled their 
tears in silence, while she sat mutely mov- 
ing her lips in prayer. At length, master- 
ing her emotion, she rose, and, with a face 
beaming like that of an ancient sibyl, wheu 
under the influence of inspiration, she said : 
" My friends, if I have given way to nature 
you must not blame me. I am like a blast- 
ed tree, whose scions are all withered, and 
from which no bud or branch can ever 
spring again. ■ My house is desolate — the 
light of my heart is extinguished — the prop 
and staff of my declining years is gone. 
The last hope of my house is blighted, and 
with me my name must soon perish from 
the earth. Yet can I truly say, with the 
patient Job, ' The Lord gave, and the Lord 
hath taken away ; blessed be the name of 
the Lord.' But though my eyes be dim, and 
the years of my pilgrimage are more than 
threescore years arid ten, it is yet reserv- 
ed for me to see the redemption of my 
land. 'Then, strengthen ye the weak hands 
and confirm the feeble knees : for the Lord 



124 



ALAMANCE. 



hath called thee as a woman forsaken and 
grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth when 
thou wast refused, saith thy God. For a 
small moment have I forsaken thee ; but 
with great mercies will I gather thee. In 
a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a 



moment; but with everlasting kindness 'and send off his slaves, and then 'to sell his 



Nathan was himself aware of the odium 
attached to his name, and finding it impos- 
sible to restore himself to his former posi- 
tion in society, and fearing too for his per- 
sonal safety, he resolved to move. He 
intended first secretly to hunt out a location 



will I have mercy on thee, saitb the Lord, 
thy Redeemer. Then shall thy light break 
forth as the morning; ye shall go forth 
.with joy, and be led forth with peace; the 
mountains and the hills shall break forth 
before you into singing, and all the trees 
of the field shall clap their hands.' And 
now to that God who sitteth upon the circle 
of the earth, while the inhabitants thereof 
are as grasshoppers before him, let every 
heart bow in prayer." 

While the company still remained at 
Esther Bell's during the following day, 
George Warden and several other wounded 
men were brought in ; but the person who 
excited most astonishment, and most joy, 
was Edith Mayfield. Her mother fainted 
oftener than she had done when she heard 
of her death, and it is not extravagant to 
say that, for a while, she created a sensa- 
tion of pleasure as lively as if the inde- 
pendence of the States had been recognized 
by the parent country. Thus every evil 
is tempered with some unexpected good ; 
and, in fact, her return was a general bless- 
ing, for it was universally regarded as a 
happy omen. The drooping spirits of the 
people began to revive, the Whigs came 
flocking home, industry began to assume 
its wonted course, and the Tories, left 
without the protection of the British, quit 
their predatory habits, and many of them 
left the country. The family of George 
Warden, however, were still in straiten- 
ed circumstances, and, having no home of 
their own, at the earnest solicitation of 
Mrs. Mayfield, and of Edith, took up their 
residence with them. Thither, also, went 
Lucy Neal, Nannie Scott, and Hector 
M'Bride ; and, as Ben Rust was a frequent 
visiter, the mansion of the Mayfields be- 
came what it had never been before, the 
head-quarters of the Whigs. The patriots 
began now to scour the country and exe- 
cute summary justice on their enemies. 
As some of their proceedings are worthy 
of note, the reader will find an account of 
them in the following chapter. 



CHAPTER L. 

" That night a child might understand, 
The De'il had business on his hand." 

Tam^D'Shanter. 

A thousand strange rumours in regard 
to Nathan Glutson had long been afloat 
at Alamance. His house was never visited 
by the Whigs, and it was even supposed 
that he secretly kept in pay a number of 
Tories, who guarded his stolen treasure. 



house and lands for what they would bring, 
and carry off his family. The night before 
he was to start in search of a new home 
set in with a threatening bank of clouds 
gathering in the south and west. Fre- 
quent flashes of lightning shot up athwart 
the heavens, and at intervals the heavy 
roll of far-off and deep-toned thunder jarred 
the doors and windows. The night grew 
darker and hotter, the lightning gleamed 
more vividly, and the booming of the thun- 
der became louder and nearer, until Na- 
than, who was afraid of storms, thought it 
proper to assemble within the parlour a 
number of men who were about tb^e prem- 
ises. 

" What did you want with us ?" de- 
manded one of these latter, who remained 
standing. 

" I wished," said Nathan, blinking and 
letting down the curtains, " to give you 
all some further directions before I part 
from you." 

" You've already told us, four or five 
times, what you want done," replied the 
man, who had spoken before, " and its 
growing late. Come, tell your business, 
and let us go to bed, for I'm sleepy." 

" Sit down, my friend, sit down and make 
yourself easy," returned Nathan, mildly, 
and trembling all over as a heavy crash of 
thunder burst through the air. ; ' Sit down 
all of you, for I'm going to set out the 
brandy ; and, as good friends are about to 
separate, we'll make a night of it. Gra- 
cious, that was a sharp flash. I believe 
we'll have a shower presently." 

" A shower, indeed !" exclaimed one of 
the men, who was standing at the door ; 
" it will be an awful storm. Just come to 
the door and see what terrible black clouds 
are boiling up in the south. Heavens ! 
the whole sky is on fire !" 

" Come," said Nathan, to 1 whom these 
words were daggers, " I must shut this 
door or you'll get frightened. Some folks 
are afraid of thunder." 

"And why shouldn't they bel" asked 
the man ; ' ; they say two men were killed 
by one stroke last week on Haw river ; 
and I saw a tree in old Hackett's yard that 
was shattered all to pieces." 

" For my part," said another, " I don't 
mind common storms, but this one to-night 
will be dreadful." 

Sheet after sheet of living flame now 
glared through the lighted room, and peal 
after peal, louder than the explosion of a 
thousand cannon, shook the house to its 
foundations. More candles were lighted, 



ALAMANCE. 



125 



the curtains were drawn closer, and still 
the fiery arrows of the clouds gleamed 
and sparkled in the room, blinding with in- 
tense brightness the eyes, and blanching 
the cheeks of its terrified tenants, while 
the rattling thunderbolts seemed to burst 
above and around them, with a crash as if 
heaven and earth were coming together. 
The wind was now terrific, prostrating, in 
its resistless might, the firmest oaks like 
rotten stubble, and the rain came down in 
floods. The wife' and children of Glutson, 
aroused and alarmed by the commotion in 
the elements, came running into the room 
— the females, frantic with fear, clustering 
round the head of the family, as if looking 
to him for protection. 

At this instant there was heard, above 
the din of the storm, a voice crying, "Na- 
than Glutson ! Nathan Glutson ! your time 
has come at last." 

"My innocent children, my dear wife," 
exclaimed Nathan, "pray for me! -pray 
for me ! pray for us all ! _ Oh. if this night 
was once over I would' live a different 
life !" 

" I hear that promise," said a man who 
came in unperceived at the northern door, 
and was followed by a file of armed men, 
all in masks. " Men, guard the doors and 
wisdows," said the leader, " and see that 
no one escapes. Do you all surrender 1'' 

" To whom, may I respectfully ask," 
said Glutson,- " shall we have that pleas- 
ure V 

" To me," was the brief response. 
."Well, friend, you see we are in your 
power," answered Nathan, meekly, " and 
I trust, you'll try us fairly." 

" You shall have justice," replied the 
captain of the armed men. " Here, lieu- 
tenant, tie them all — I mean all the men." 

This order was promptly executed, no 
one making the slightest resistance, and 
the women and children looking on in 
mute astonishment and alarm. 

" Now," said the captain, " we'll pro- 
ceed to business. Nathan Glutson !" 

" I hear you, sir." 

"Nathan Glutson, I've come to settle 
with you a long account." 

" If you owe me any thing, friend," re- 
plied Glutson, " I don't know it ; and, as 
for myself, I don't owe a dollar in the 
world." 

"You are mistaken, sir," returned the 
captain, " as I will soon show you by the 
bill and vouchers." 

" It's very likely, friend ; for all our me- 
mories are treacherous. I'll never deny 
a just debt, and if you'll show me one I'll 
pay it with the cash down, principal and 
interest." 

" Very well," said the captain, "here is 
the account, and I'll read it to you, item 
by item." 

" Molly, dear," said Nathan to his wife, 



"bring me my spectacles, and bring also 
a pen and ink, and some paper, for we 
may need them." 

" Not at present," replied the captain ; 
" I am going to show you a new way to 
write receipts." 

" Will you let me look at your bill V 
asked Glutson, his wife adjusting his spec- 
tacles for him. " I do not wish, by any 
means, to dispute your word, but I make 
it a rule always to examine accounts be- 
fore I pay them. Men can't be too partic- 
ular about such things ; and sharp looks 
save long suits." 

" That's a fact," exclaimed the captain ; 
"but the keenest of us sometimes nod, as 
you will see. I'll read you the account, 
and then you can examine it at your leis- 
ure." 

" Very good, my friend, you can pro- 
ceed in your own way." 

" Well, here's the bill : 

'Nathan Glutson 

To Public Justice, Dr. 
For assisting Alan Ross to carry of 
Edith Mayfield, charged • 39 lashes.' " 

• " You are jesting with me, friend," said 
Nathan. 

" I never was more in earnest in my 
life," answered the captain, " and I would 
have you to hold your peace and listen. 

' To negroes, bonds, many cattle and 
horses, stolen from the Whigs at 
his instigation, and for his benefit, 
charged, a full restitution, with in- 
terest on the value, and 

To sundries, such as being a thief, a 
Tory, and a general nuisance, 
charged, 

To persecuting George Warden, 
burning his fences and his houses, 
and destroying his property, charg- 
ed, £1000 and 

To procuring, aiding and abetting in 
various murders, burglaries, and 
assassinations, charged, to be 
hanged by the neck till you die. 

Sum total : to receive 186 lashes, restore 
all your stolen effects, with interest on 
their value from the time of taking, to pay 
down £1000, and then to die and leave 
a world where you are a pest.' 

" Now, old gripus, here's the voucher. 
Here's the affidavits of Dick Sikes and of 
Pete Simmons, all regularly taken. Are 
you ready to close the account ?'? 

" Let me speak with you in private," 
answered Nathan, and the two withdrew 
into another room. 

They had been gone but a few minutes 
when the captain returned, leading his 
prisoner by the collar, and exclaiming, 
"The old villain as good as confessed, and 
tried to bribe me. Let him swing instant- 
ly." 

The family of Glutson now set up a 
piteous lamentation, begging for his life, 



69 lashes. 



39 lashes. 



39 lashes. 



126 



ALAMANCE. 






and offering-, if he was spared, (o make him 
give up every thing, even to the last dollar 
which he had. 

" We'll give him fifteen minutes to pre- 
pare," said the leader, " during which time 
we'll despatch some other business. Tom 
Barton and Jesse Woods, I wish to have 
a word with you." 

" Who told ypu our names ?" asked the 
persons called at the same time. 

" No matter for that. I know you. You, 
Tom, are charged with various burglaries ; 
and among them a most heinous one at 
Ralph Goyvell's. You are charged with 
an attempt to kill Esther Bell, with being 
accessory to the murder of Betsy Deans, 
and with having shot at that good man, 
Isaac Holt. There are a hundred charges 
against you, Jesse, and the last one is, that 
you treacherously shot that brave man, 
Captain Forbes, while he was fighting for 
his country, at Guilford court-house. Come, 
lieutenant, fix the ropes." 

Prayers, promises, and entreaties were 
vain. The storm having somewhat subsi- 
ded, the two Tories were led out, and to 
the limb of an oak immediately before the 
door they were suspended, side by side, 
and left — their struggling bodies being oc- 
casionally revealed by the fitful flashes of 
lightning, and filling Glutson and his friends 
with horror. 

" Now> old Jew,'-' said the captain to 
Nathan, " your turn comes next, and time 
presses. Are you ready to pay up? Why, 
man, are you crazy ?" , 

Nathan, standing at the door in a sort of 
stupor, with his ej'es fixed on the suspend- 
ed bodies of the Tories oscillating to and 
fro in the wind, like pendulums, replied, 
" Yes, my friend, ray good friend, I'm ready 
to give you every thing I have in the world. 
Only spare my life, for God's sake ; for 
these poor innocents' sake, spare my life ! 
I am not ready to die ; I want time to re- 
pent of all my sins." 

" Time," answered the captain, " is what 
you've been v*ery sparing of. I never heard 
it said of you that you did not demand pay- 
ment the very minute your debt was due." 

" Yes ; but, friend, you may do good by 
indulging me, for I swear to you that I 
will do whatever you want." 

" And so have your debtors sworn often 
before. The poor wretches in whom your 
usurious claws were fixed have begged, 
entreated, and prayed for a little indul- 
gence. They have pointed to their weep- 
ing wives and children crying for bread ; 
they have pointed to their own utter ruin, 
and shown that a little, just a little, indul- 
gence would save them, and save, also, 
your debt. To these entreaties, you, hard- 
hearted monster — you, son of perdition, 
have always coolly answered, ' The debt's 
due, and 1 can't help your misfortunes, I 
must have my money.' So I now say to 



you, the debt's due, and, what's more, 
it's just. Recommend your soul to the 
mercy of God, for your time's up." 

So saying, the captain and his men seized 
Nathan, and, while he was, yet screaming, 
and his family clinging to him, he was 
swung by the side of his friends on the 
oak. The rope was so fastened that the 
tension round the neck was not severe, 
and the wretch suffered the agonies of a 
hundred deaths. He was finally taken 
down while life yet remained, and, after 
some difficulty, was restored to the use of 
his faculties. He was, however, pale as a 
corpse, and weak and feeble as a child, and 
with ready alacrity did whatever he was 
requested. He brought out all his papers ; 
and these being handed by the captain to 
one of his assistants for his inspection, 
the latter found what he expected — the 
bonds of Warden, with receipts from Glut- 
son for nearly the whole amount. A paper 
was also found, in which there was a re- 
lease, by Glutson, of his title to the prop- 
erty of Warden', forfeited by the terms of a 
mortgage ; and this release was dated on 
the same day with the receipts, and five 
days after the mortgage became due. 
Glutson acknowledged that these papers 
had been purloined at his instigation, and 
ordered a secret cash-book to be brought 
out, that it might be seen what amount of 
stolen property had come to his hands. 
The soldiers stared at each other, and now 
felt that they were truly in a den of iniquity. 

The celebrated book was produced — a 
book that was long kept as a rare curiosi- 
ty at Alamance, and known as " the Dev- 
il's Leger." Fragments of it are now in 
the author's possession, being a part of the 
papers left by the master ; and from them 
it appears that Glutson kept an exact ac- 
count of his dealings with the Tories, each 
of which was known and mentioned by 
some fictitious name. A few extracts will 
show the manner in which the entries were 
made : ' 

" Paid Long Thorn 7 pounds 2, for five horses 

imported from -Babylon. 
Paid King Solomon four and sixpence, for an 
assortment of leather, sheep, and black- 
smith's tools, imported from Nova Scotia. 
Paid Jupiter Jehosiphat 1 pound sterling, for his 

part of the cargo from Constantinople. 
Paid the Pope 10 pounds sterling, ffir two ne- 
groes and sundries, imported from Botany 
Bay." 

The captain and his men, beyond meas- 
ure astonished, and even amused at what 
they found in the book, turned oyer the 
leaves and devoured the contents with their 
eyes for some time, nearly forgetting the 
object of their visit. After they had suffi- 
ciently gratified their curiosity, and learned 
from Nathan the persons to whom the nick- 
names were applied, the places indicated 
by " Babylon," " Constantinople," &c, and 



ALAMANCE. 



127 



that imported meant stolen, the captain 
spoke as follows : 

" My friends, the night is far spent, and 
it's time to finish business and be off. Car- 
ry out these rascals, strip them, and tie 
each one to a tree and give them one hun- 
dred and eighty-six lashes a-piece. While 
you are about it, the leftenant and I will 
attend to Nathan and his book." The men 
prepared to do as they were bid ; and the 
captain continued to his lieutenant: "Add 
up the items, and see how much plunder, 
besides the negroes, he' has got." 

The lieutenant did as he was bid, and 
answered, " Fifteen hundred pounds ster- 
ling will cover the amount." 

" Count it out, Nathan," said the captain ; 
" it shall be applied to the benefit of the 
needy Whig families." Glutson counted 
out the sum in gold, and the captain pro- 
ceeded : " Now for Warden's negroes ; 
where are they 1 ?" 

" They are all in an outhouse," answer- 
ed Glutson, " except one, who died from 
ill-usage." At this the captain, his lieu- 
tenant, and Glutson, proceeded to the house 
alluded to, and releasing the slaves, these 
latter were most extravagantly delighted, 
and eagerly enquired where they would 
find their master's family. 

"I'll tell you presently," replied the 
captain ; " and do you wait in the yard 
here till I call you." 

While these things were going on, the 
ears of Nathan were saluted by the most 
dismal groans from the place where his 
friends were suffering ; and he was in such 
a constant terror that he trembled all over, 
and could scarcely speak. At every stroke 
— and they were sturdy ones — he started 
and looked as if his own back were smart- 
ing under the lash. After suffering mar- 
tyrdom in this way, he was led out, and 
the captain and his lieutenant marked upon 
him, between his neck and heels, one hun- 
dred and eighty-six tokens of remembrance. 
After this, a solution of salt was thrown 
over the Tories ; and the cap'tain, after a 
considerable effort at calculation, remark- 
ed : " I've been trying to make out the 
compound interest on one hundred and 
eighty-six for three years, but figures were 
always a botheration to me. Well make 
it an even two hundred. One hundred and 
eighty-six from two hundred leaves how 
many]" 

" Fourteen," said one. 

" Let it. be fifteen for good measure and 
a round tafly." 

The fifteen were given, and the captain 
again spdke : " Here, Mr. Secretary, I want 
you to do some writing. Give Nathan 
Glutson a receipt, and see that you write 
it plain, and so it won't wear out, for he is 
a tricky dog." 

The injunction was obeyed with right 
good will, and the traces of the bold hand 



of the scribe would have been legible for 
half a century had Nathan lived so long. 
After these settlements were effected, the 
Tories were dressed and brought into the 
house, where the captain, changing his as- 
sumed voice and manner, thus harangued 
them : " Ladies and gentlemen, the per- 
formance is concluded for the night, and 
all accounts squared up to date. It has 
been, my sinful friends, a painful job to all 
parties concerned, and now that it's all 
over, I would, as old Proximus says, make 
a few moral observations. Firstly, then, 
you are informed that your credit is no 
longer good, and in all our dealings here- 
after I must have the cash up — that is to 
say, your uncle is now about, perfectly 
in town, with his pocket full of rocks ; and 
if you engage in any new rascalities you 
may expect to smoke for it immediately, 
if not sooner. Secondly, I wish you to 
remember Captain Bolus to all your friends 
and acquaintances, and especially to show 
them my letters, and let them know what 
I'll do for them whenever I find them. 
Thirdly, you now see the folly of your 
ways, and how hard it is, as Xhe Scriptur 
says, to kick agin the pricks. You've 
brought disgrace on yourselves and on 
your families ; you've made yourselves 
hated, betrayed your country, and played 
the very devil ginerally. You see and feel 
how you've got part of your reward ; and 
just as sure as your backs are now smart- 
in, if you don't repent your souls will 
scorch in hell-fire to all eternity. And, 
fourthly — and this is the last and main 
pint, and the cream of the whole matter — 
I give you all five days to settle up your 
accounts and be off, bag and baggage, 
scrip and scrippage, as old Proximus has 
it ; and if after that time any of you are 
caught at Alamance, you will swing like 
them poor critturs at the door. This is 
said by Captain Bolus, sometimes called 
the Devil, and sometimes the Flyin Sar- 
pint, who sees all round him, and who 
never breaks his word. And now, my 
Christin friends, let us leave this cursed 
abode of sin and misery." 

We will here remark that Nathan Glut- 
son, who acquitted George Warden of any 
part in these proceedings, soon visited that 
gentleman, gave him a receipt in full for 
the small balance of his debt, and restored 
to him his lands. After this, Nathan and 
his friends disappeared ; the Whigs, to get 
rid of him, giving him the full value of his 
real estate, and burning his house to the 
arround. 



CHAPTER LI. 

A SAD AND SWEET REMEMBRANCE. 

As congeniality of feeling produces inti- 
macy and . friendship, the party at Mrs. 



128 



ALAMANCE 



Mavfield's soon formed themselves into 
trios. Mrs. Mayfield, Mrs. Warden, and 
Nannie Scott discussed household mat- 
ters and neighbourhood and family affairs ; 
George Warden, Edith Mayfield, and Hec- 
tor M'Bride discoursed gravely of politics 
and morals, life and death, time and eter- 
nity ; while Lucy Neal, Kate Warden, and 
Donald M'Leod fished, visited, and wander- 
ed over the fields, gardens, and meadows, 
talking of love, romance, and marriages, 
poetry and novels. Kate and Lucy be- 
came, in fact, extremely intimate, were 
generally favorites, and had some rare 
frolics at' the expense of the master and 
others, doing, at all times, pretty much 
what they pleased. When the Warden 
estates were restored to the rightful own- 
ers, and while preparations for the recep- 
tion of the family were going on, the two 
girls went to visit the old place, and see 
how things were progressing. Kate did not 
fail to point out to Lucy every beautiful 
scene, and. after they had rambled about 
till they were tired, they went into the 
garden. " Oh, Lucy, dear, run here !" ex- 
claimed Kate, who had separated from her 
companion ; " run here, and see what a 
beautiful sight !" Lucy did run, wonder- 
ing what had so excited her friend, who 
continued, as she saw Lucy coming, "Here 
is the name of Edith Mayfield, just as dis- 
tinct as it was when planted by brother 
Henry. He planted these carnations a long 
time ago, and just see how ihey are still 
flourishing, and all in bloom !" 

" It is a sweet sight, indeed," said Lucy, 
" and I admire the fancy very much. How 
did your brother come to think of it V 

" There is a romance connected with 
it," answered Kate — " a sad and pleasant 
story, and I have half a mind to tell it to 
you." 

"Please do," Lucy cried, seating her- 
self on the grass by her friend : " please 
tell it, for I like to hear a romance of all 
things." 

" I'm a poor hand to tell a story," re- 
turned Kate, " and always do it very sim- 
ply ; and yet father never gets tired of hear- 
ing me talk, and calls me his little ro- 
mancer. Oh, how happy we used to be 
before the troubles got to be so bad ! I 
remember every thing as if it had hap- 
pened yesterday, and I almost think I hear 
father calling on me to tell him some tale 
of love and romance, and trials of the old 
times that are gone. There sat old mother 
Demijohn in the great arm-chair in the 
corner, with her high, stiff cap and her. 
short pipe, puffing away, and looking so 
kind and pleasing at us all ; by her side, 
on a low rocking-chair, was mother; busy, ! 
with her maid, at work, and every now , 
and then turning to father; old Ben, whoj 
then remained in the house, nodded away | 
in the other corner, occasionally opening 



and rubbing his eyes, and staring as know- 
ingly as if he had heard and understood 
every word ; father has his arm around 
me, and little Wash sits on his stool at my 
feet, with his elbows in my lap, and gazing 
earnestly into my face, and believing and 
wondering at all I say. Those times will 
never come back, for one, the dearest and 
best of us all, is gone! Poor little Wash, 
my heart aches when I think of him !" 

" Dear Kate," said Lucy, shedding tears 
from sympathy, " you've told a story be- 
fore you began. Come, dry your tears, my 
sweet child, and tell me about the flowers. 
Your next tale will not be so sad, 'I 
hope." 

"You must know, then," Kate com- 
menced, " that from a child brother loved 

Edith What's the matter, Lucy \ did you 

see a snake V 

"I thought so," answered Lucy; "but 
it was only that crooked stick. How it 
did frighten me !" 

" I despise snakes," said Kate, " the 
great, ugly creatures ! What a world this 
would be if there were no serpents, and 
how happy we could be among the flow- 
er's ! As it is, we can't go into the meadow 
or the garden without being in terror of 
them ; for the sly, deceitful things are al- 
ways creeping about in the most beautiful 
places. But, as I was going to say, brother 
Henry loved Edith Mayfield from a child, 

and she was attached to him Dear Lucy, 

are you sick ? We had better get off this 
damp ground and go into the house, for 
you look very pale." 

" I am not unwell," replied Lucy ; " I 
have not yet got over my fright. Please 
go on." 

" I was about to tell you that brother 
Henry was not like other boys ; he took 
little interest in their plays and pleasures, 
and, as 1 have heard the master say, his 
soul seemed to live in a different world — 
a world of his own, all beautiful and flow- 
ery as this garden, and where there were 
no snakes, toads, or scorpions, or reptiles 
of any sort. There was no one like him 
but Edith Mayfield, and you might see 
that she was from her very looks. Her 
eyes, as M'Bride says, look like the win- 
dows of Paradise, for the heaven" of her 
soul is shining through them. Brother's 
and Edith's hearts grew together before 
they knew it, and their souls were wedded 
by God himself, so that, if they do not live 
together here, I do believe they will be in- 
separable companions in heaven. Lucy, 
you must be sick." 

" Indeed," said she, "I have a palpitation 
at the heart, and I am in a sort of tremor 
all over ; but it is all caused by my alarm. 
Never mind me, but finish the tale, for it is 
very interesting." 

"Where did I leave off? Oh, I remem- 
ber now. As they grew up, Edith's father, 



ALAMANCE 



129 



who was a cold-hearted, worldly man, ob- 
jected to her being so much with brother. 
He chided her about her intimacy with 
him— told her he was a visionary, and 
made her act in such a way as caused 
brother to believe she was not what he 
once thought her. It was only in appear- 
ance that she disliked him ; but he did not 
know it, and as she was very dutiful, he 
never could find out what her feelings 
were. She returned all his letters and po- 
etry — How you start ! — even quit school, 
and would not let him see her when he 
visited at her father's. He thought she 
Avas in love with Ross — you have heard of 
him — and he resolved to go to the wars, 
young as he was. Just before he went, he 
made a great speech at the exhibition at 
Alamance school-house, and every body ap- 
plauded it. Edith was so pleased that she 
could not help showing it, and she and 
Henry had some very kind conversation. 
That wasthe last time he saw her. When 
he came home he told me all about it, and 
I said to him that I knew that Edith loved 
him, and always would. ' A woman's 
smiles are like sunshine in April,' he an- 
swered, and he would not believe but what 
• her kindness was the result of a sudden 
whim. As mother was then gardening, 
brother Henry wrote Edith's name on this 
bed, and, sowing it with carnation-seed, 
he laughed and said, ' Now, sister Kate, 
I'm going away, and you'll see that Edith's 
love will be like this name : no trace of 
either will be left when I return !' He went 
off, and the carnations came up and bloom- 
ed most beautifully. The first year I show- 
ed them to Edith, and she laughed and said 
nothing ; the next spring she was anxious 
to see if the flowers still remained; the 
next she looked at them sadly, and carried 
some away ; the next she visited them 
every week, and sat by them and wept for 
hours at a time. You see they are still 
flourishing, though the garden has been 
long neglected, and every letter of the 
name is perfect. It's a happy omen. Edith 
has gone through many trials, and has at 
last got home safe, and still loves Henry. 
I know he loves her, and as soon as he 
hears that she is living, and at home, he 
will come on the wings of the wind. I 
saw him just before the battle of Guilford 
Court House, and he gave me some little 
mementoes of Edith, and told me, if he 
was killed, to bury them with him. All 
things will come right at last, and turn outi 
happy." . , 

" They do not always," answered Lucy ; 
"as, for instance, little Wash. Was he 
like Henry V 

" Very much, only stouter, and not so 
intellectual, though he was very smart. 
Poor little Wash ! he left us in gloomy 
times, and is not here to see our happi- 
ness." 

I 



" I'll tell him of it all," said Lucy, with a 
sad, abstracted manner. 

"Tell little Wash!" exclaimed Kate, 
with astonishment ;." why, he was buried 
in the old grave-yard at'Alamance-church 
long ago. I saw, myself, the cold clods fall 
upon his coffin, and it seemed to me that 
I could hear him calling to me and telling 
me not to let them leave him there by 
himself in the dark, damp ground. But 
only his body 'is there, for his spirit is now 
happy in heaven." 

" And there," replied Lucy, her tears 
falling like rain, " shall 1 meet him soon." 

Kate looked inquiringly at her, and, with- 
out knowing the cause of her strange words, 
wept also, and locked herself in the em- 
braces of her friend. " We've had a ro- 
mance, sure enough," at length spoke Kate, 
" and, like father, you've paid me with your 
tears. ■ Is it not time to return 1 ?" 

" I think it is," said Lucy, " and, indeed, 
I feel as if I were going to be sick. I 
wish I was at my home in the mountains." 

" That's unkind, dear Lucy," returned 
Kate, " though its natural to be sad when 
we first leave home. You'll soon get used 
to it, and be happy with us. I almost wish 
you were a little sick, that I might have 
the pleasure of being your nurse, and you'd 
find me an excellent one." 



CHAPTER LII. 

THE MASTER BEGINS TO MAKE A STRANGK 
DISCOVERY. 

" I have told you I should start to-mor- 
row," said Lucy Neal, who was alone with 
the master. 

" And I have told you," he retorted, " that 
I cannot be a shuttlecock for the women, 
to be forever knocked about by them ac- 
cording as whim or fancy strikes them. 
Your father does not expect-you so soon, 
the roads are yet dangerous, and you are 
among your friends. You must listen to 
reason." 

" I do not wish you to trouble yourself 
on my account," the girl answered ; " I 
thought it my duty to inform you of my 
intentions. I am much obliged to you for 
your former kindness, and now thank you 
in my own and my father's name. Aunt 
Jennie and I can find the way, for I ob- 
served the road attentively." 

The master, touched more by her man- 
ner than by what she said, felt himself 
strangely affected, and, apologizing for his 
warmth, told Lucy he would go with her 
to the ends of the earth. Her sudden de- 
termination and her deep dejection aston- 
ished the people with whom she was stay- 
ing, and none more, than Edith Mayfield. 
That lady, suspecting the state of Lucy's 
feelings, and having determined to promote 
her wishes, studiously avoided any allusion 



130 



ALAMANCE 



to her own attachment for Henry Warden. 
She believed, however, that Lucy had heard 
of it; and when she heard Kate Warden 
tell her mother of what took place in the 
garden, she saw', or thought she saw, and 
so did Mrs. Warden, the cause of Lucy's 
unhappiness. Edith, in the boundless 
goodness of her heart, nearly resolved to 
make a confident of her mountain friend, 
and renounce in her favour all pretensions 
to the heart of Major Warden. She con- 
sidered, however, that he might not agree 
to this arrangement, and, for this and other 
reasons, she held her peace. She did, 
nevertheless, as did also Kate and the 
other ladies, use every exertion to prolong 
the stay of Lucy ; but all their arguments 
and entreaties failed to alter her purpose. 
It was then settled that the master and 
black Ben should accompany her and her 
faithful old female servant, and so they all 
set about making preparations. Every 
one, old and young, male and female, had 
some token to present, and old Ben found 
that his horse would have a heavy burden 
indeed. When the parting came, all wept 
aloud but Lucy, whose eyes were suffused 
with tears, and who, with a voice that 
melted into the soul of every hearer, spoke. 
a few farewell words to each. She was 
cordially invited to return again ; and when 
Edith told her that she and Kate would 
come after her in the summer, she replied, 
with a look and voice that seemed not of 
earth, " I shall be gone, sister, like last 
year's flowers. Still, till my last breath, I 
shall remember you all." So saying she 
and her escort took the road, and were 
soon beyond the limits of Alamance. 

" Mr. M' Bride, can one be saved without 
being a member of any church V asked 
Lucy. 

" I think it possible," answered the mas- 
ter ; " but it is advisable to join. Why do 
you ask such a question ? Are you a 
member ?" 

Lucy. — " No, sir ; but I have often thought 
of such things. What is religion 1" 

The Master. — " That is a question easier 
to ask than answer. Men have disputed 
and fought about it, and will, I apprehend, 
continue to dispute and fight about it, with- 
out ever coming to any conclusion. For 
my own part, while I allow every one the 
free enjoyment of his opinions, I have my 
own peculiar ones." 

Lucy. — " So have I mine ; and if you will 
not laugh at my simplicity, I'll tell you 
what they are. I have never harboured 
ill-will, nor wished harm to a living thing : 
I have always obeyed my parents in all 
things, and preferred the good of others to 
my own : I have envied nobody, hated no 
one, and slandered no one : I have wished 
to see all the world happy, and never de- 
sired a forbid"den thing: 1 have had an 
humble opinion of myself, and have looked 



up to God as my father and as one who 
constantly saw my heart — which prays 
daily to Him. Do I stand any chance of 
getting to heaven j" 

The Master. — " By my soul, Lucy, more 
than half the Christian world would do well 
to take your chances for their own. Your 
notions, in my judgement, are correct ; but 
I would not have you to be overconfident 
of salvation. This vain and blind confi- 
dence is the cause of perdition to many a 
bigoted soul, for it causes them to lose 
sight of the very first element of religion. 
Who knows himself to be a sinner has 
taken the first and greatest step towards 
heaven; and to know and feel this daily, 
with inward humility and sorrow, and an 
humble trust in the mercy of God, this it 
is to be religious. Our whole life is a state 
militant, and we must war constantly on 
our own desires." 

Lucy. — "But are there not some who- 
become so holy that they have no need to 
carry on this war, and are positively cer- 
tain of being saved]" 

The Master. — " That some are positive- 
ly certain, in their own minds, of being 
saved, is undoubted ; that any are holy or 
righteous is in the very teeth of Scripture. 
I tell you, Lucy, that these people who are 
righteous in their own eyes are certain of 
perdition." 

Lucy. — " They never seem to fear it for 
themselves, and they denounce it very 
freely to others." 

The Master. — " So they do, the hypo- 
crites. God and the world judge differ- 
ently. For example, I will state a case : 
Here is a sober, sedate, and severe-faced 
man, who eschews lewd company, indulges 
in no pastimes, never utters an oath, and 
attends church punctually every Sabbath — 
sitting on the front pews, and listening 
devoutly to the services. He has a gay, 
wild neighbour who loves his joke, rarely 
goes to church, is not ashamed of being 
found with any one who may visit him, 
and who is guilty of the very irreverent 
habit of laughing when he's pleased. The 
world respects the former as a pattern of 
piety, and scowls upon the latter (more 
particularly if he's independent in his own 
opinions) as a miscreant on the road to 
temporal and eternal ruin. And yet, the 
all-seeing eye of Heaven beholds in the 
heart of the grave Pharisee the putrid con- 
tents of a whited sepulchre, and in that of 
the other charity, open as the day — rever- 
ence to God and good-will to men." 

Lucy.—" Is it not strange that the very 
followers of our meek and lowly Saviour 
should, generally, be so much like those 
very Pharisees whom he denounced as 
hypocrites ?" 

The Master. — " It is, indeed ; but so it 
has been from the beginning. The de- 
scendants of Moses and the prophets were 



ALAMANCE. 



131 



ready to crucify Christ for blasphemy to- 
wards those prophets, for being what they 
had predicted he would be. I have come 
to the melancholy conclusion, after much 
observation and study of history, that to 
preserve the world's esteem we must wear 
the cloak of hypocrisy. The first idea of 
all persons, savage and civilized — of Jew 
and Turk, Pagan and Christian— is intol- 
erance. The world demands of you that 
you should think and act in all things, and 
especially in religious matters, as it acts 
and thinks. If you will but be mindful to 
do this, it will be better for you than to 
have a heart as pure as the unspotted 
snow. The world judges not by the in- 
tentions of the heart, nor by the absolute 
good or evil of the deed, but by its con- 
formity or non-conformity to its opinions. 
"When Lady Macduff is advised to fly, to 
avoid the assassins hired by Macbeth, 
Shakspeare makes her say, 

' Whither should I fly 1 
I have done no harm. But I remember now 
I am in this earthy world, where, to do harm, 
Is often laudable — to do good, sometimes 
Accounted dangerous folly. When, then, alas ! 
Do I put up that womanly defence, 
To say I have done no harm V 
That defence is available only before the 
bar of the Judge of the quick and dead. 
There the wretch, through whose rags the 
lance of earthly justice pierces, will stand 
proudly erect, his innocence guarding him 
with an armour impervious even to the 
wrath of Omnipotence !" 

Lucy. — " There's nothing I dislike so 
much as to have to think as other people 
io, and against my reason." 

The Master. — " No ingenuous and un- 
corrupted person likes it ; but to this ' com- 
plexion' we must all 'come at last.' Let 
a man undertake to follow the dictates of 
his own heart and judgement, even in the 
smallest matters, and he will suffer for it. 
Suppose, for instance, it was customary, 
in some village, for all the male inhabitants 
to go bareheaded and barefooted once a- 
week to the public square, and play at 
marbles and leap-frog, and suppose this 
custom had long prevailed ; if a new-comer 
should happen there and take up his resi- 
dence, and should fail at the appointed 
place and hour to make his appearance 
without shoes or hat, he would become 
directly the subject of general conversa- 
tion : from this he would get to be unpop- 
ular ; thence a suspicious character, and, 
finally, all sorts of monstrous stories would 
be believed in regard to him, and he would 
be hated and dreaded as a savage, an infi- 
del, a pagan, a magician possessed of a 
legion of devils. You may laugh, but I 
tell you it is so. I have seen just such 
things." 

Lucy. — " You must forgive me, Mr. 
M* Bride ; I was not laughing at your doc- 



trines, but at the singular illustration. I 
believe in what you say, yet I shall live 
and die a non-conformist, a sui generis, as 
I've heard you say, without an original or a 
copy. I am like nobody, and there is no 
communion of feeling or connection by 
blood between me and a living thing." 

The Master. — " Lucy, you astonish me ; 
and I fear my speculations have turned 
your brain. What do you mean by saying 
you are not connected with a living thing ? 
Your parents are surely still living ; at 
least I have heard nothing of their deaths." 

Lucy. — " My parents have long been 
dead, Mr. M'Bride. Those good people in 
the mountains are only my foster-parents. 
My father, who did not stand high with the 
world, and my mother died about the same 
time, and left me, then a little girl, alone 
in the world, without relations and per- 
fectly destitute. Those good people with 
whom I live took me and adopted me ; and 
though they never allude, in my presence, 
to my early history, I remember it as well 
as I remember the events of yesterday. 
Thus, as I told you, I am connected by 
ties of blood with no living thing that I 
know of, and the world does not own me." 

The Master. — " There you wrong the 
world, Lucy, and permit your own imagi- 
nation to deceive you. You are uni- 
versally beloved ; and, to show you that 
you are mistaken, no one but your foster- 
parents knows your history." 

Lucy. — "The world knows by instinct 
that I am an outcast, a child of wretched- 
ness ; and though all respect me, and may 
even be fond of my society, no one would 
like to claim kindred with me. They will 
associate freely with me, visit me, and 
invite me to their houses ; they pity me 
and speak softly and kindly to me, but it is 
as to one who is not of them — one whom 
they would be ashamed to own as a daugh- 
ter or sister ; one who between whom and 
them there are not, and cannot be, those 
common sympathies, those free commu- 
nions, those nearer and dearer ties that 
bind families together." 

The Master.—" This is all the offspring 
of a fancy diseased by dwelling too much 
on the circumstances attending your child- 
hood ; but, true or false, you have one 
brother who this day is proud to own you 
as his sister. Lucy, I am not a lover; 
that I cannot be. Do not, therefore, be 
uneasy when I tell you that from our first 
acquaintance I have felt a strange interest 
in you, and that you only, of all the women 
on earth, are really dear to me. I say 
again it is not love — it is a purer and holier 
feeling." 

Lucy. — "Then we two will form a 
church to ourselves." 

The Master. — " You speak in riddles ; if 
you are anxious to commune, why not join 
some church at once 1 ?" 



132 



ALAMANCE. 



Lucy. — "I have told you my reasons. 
The world shuns me, and I do not wish to 
thrust myself into its societies. Yet I do 
wish to be saved, and I do hope that God. 
as a father, will receive me, and that in his 
bright, mansions I will find a home." 

M'Bride. — " Fear not. for it is impossible 
that hell can be peopled by such spirits as 
yours. But, as I was going to tell you, I 
too am desolate, and it may be possible 
that, in truth, I will find a relation in you. 
I will tell over to you my history, and then 
you can judge if we are really of the same 
kindred." 

- "Oh!" exclaimed Lucy, "how have I 
longed to find some good and beautiful 
brother, sister, or cousin ! I often think 
of the situation and feelings of the captive 
Hebrews, as they sat by the rivers of Baby- 
lon, weeping and remembering their own 
beloved land. Oh, how sad it is to be in a 
strange country and among a strange peo- 
ple, and to have none of our own kindred, 
friends, or people with us ! Thus it has 
been with me all my life ; all the world 
is a Babylon to me, and among its fairest, 
scenes T sit and weep, thinking of ,some 
imaginary country, some beautiful, green, 
and 'happy land, from which I have been 
taken, and where I have sweet friends who 
are like me. anxiously waiting for my re- 
turn among them, ready to embrace and 
hug me to their hearts. Where is that 
dear land?" continued Lucy, dropping a 
tear ; " where is that beautiful being who 
will fold me in her arms and softly whis- 
per ' dear cousin' in my ear? Alas ! I will 
never find that happy home !" 

The girl, being overcome by her emo- 
tion, was unable to give further utterance 
to her thoughts, and the master for a while 
mingled his tears in silence with hers. At 
length, however, M'Bride, subduing his 
feelings, was able to give a brief account 
of his own history, at the conclusion of 
which Lucy told him there was a strange 
connection between them, but she would 
leave it to her foster-father to reveal it. 
She was taken, in the mean time, with a 
violent cold, and during the balance of the 
journey she and her friend conversed 
gravely on religious subjects, and she was 
much edified and soothed by the master's 
discourse. 



CHAPTER LIII. 

Duke. — And what's her history? 
Viola. — A blank, my lord ; she never told her 
love. 

Twelfth Night. 

The master did not fail to enquire of 
Abraham Neal the history of his foster- 
daughter ; and the old gentleman, taking 
him aside, spoke as follows : " Many years 
ago, there came to reside in a hut on my 



farm a man of my name, who had a wife 
and one child, then a little girl. As the 
family seemed to be very poor, I charged 
them no rent, and often made my negroes 
assist upon their little farm. The man was 
a confirmed drunkard — the most entire 
brute I ever saw. He spent every thing 
for liquor, was a madman when drunk, and 
often tried to kill his wife, his child, and 
himself. The poor woman soon fell ili, and 
I and my wife remained with her till she 
died. The scene was an awful one, and I 
never can forget it. The child clung to 
her dead mother, begging her to come back 
to her, while her besotted father uttered 
the most horrid oaths, cursing God and all 
his creatures. He soon went off himself, 
dying from the effects of mania a potw, 
and, my wife being childless, we adopted 
the girl, and have loved her as if she were 
our own offspring. She is my heir, and, I 
trust, if she yet remembers, she will soon 
forget her origin." 

" Can you tell me the Christian names 
of the father and mother," asked M'Bride, 
" and the place of their former residence V 

" His name was Frank — her's Rotha, 
and she said she was from Philadelphia, 
which I believed, for she was a lady of ed- 
ucation and rare endowments." 

" Oh, my prophetic heart !" exclaimed 
the master; " I knew it, I knew it!" 

"Knew what, my friend 1 ?" enquired the 
astonished Neal. 

" Excuse me," answered M'Bride, " but 
even at this late date my feelings over- 
come me. That lady, sir, was my first, 
my last, and my only love. I became ac- 
quainted with her while I was a student in 
Philadelphia, and a mutual attachment 
grew up between us. My father failed ; 
Frank Neal, who was a student of medi- 
cine, was reported to be immensely rich, 
married Rotha, and turned out to be a vag- 
abond and impostor. He spent all her 
property, went off, and I never again heard 
of him till now." 

" It's a strange and sad story," said Neal, 
" and when I am more at leisure, I will get 
you to relate it all to me and my wife. You 
must excuse me now, for Lucy is quite 
unwell, and I cannot be from her long. I 
like not her extreme dejection, and fear 
something is preying on her mind." 

" She well recollects her origin," replied 
the master, " and alluded to it on the road. 
I cannot imagine what has brought it into 
her mind, for she was very happy at Ala- 
mance." 

" She has taken cold," returned Neal, 
•' and I fear is going to be very ill. I have 
noticed that persons finely strung like her 
have a foreboding of approaching illness. 
We must go and cheer her up." 

" It will be a work of love with me," 
said the master ; and with what success he 
labored will be seen by the following let- 



ALAMANCE. 



133 



ter, sent by Ben to Henry Warden, and in 
his absence, to his mother. 

M l Bride's Letter. 
" My Dear Henry — As you will have heard, 
our interesting and beautiful friend, Lucy Neal, 
took it into her head to visit Alamance, and 
from thence I conducted her home. Strange 
'enough, I found that she was only the adopted 
daughter of our former host, Abraham Neal, and 
the real daughter of my beloved Rotha ; but the 
strangest part of all was the sudden melan- 
choly illness which overtook her on the road. 
She was very feeble and extremely sad when 
she arrived here, and spoke seldom to any one, 
preferring to be alone. As long as she was 
able to move herself, she would steal off to the 
mountain where you had the adventure with 
her, and frequently we have found her in the 
Woodland Bower, poring over her scrap-book, 
which she always carried about her. When 
she became too weak to walk, she would still 
insist on being permitted to sit in the door in 
the evenings, and would watch, in deep dejec- 
tion, the sunlight fading on the distant hill-top. 
One day, nothing would do but we must carry 
her down to the bower, and, while I was left 
alone with her, I asked her why she carried 
that book about with her, and if there was any 
inscription in it she prized 1 ' There is one,' 
she answered, ' but, like my life, 'the main part 
of it is a blank. I never understood it till lately.' 
As she would let no one see it, I know not to 
what she alluded. I would observe, also — for 
every thing connected with her history is inter- 
esting — that she wore constantly about her 
neck a certain handkerchief, and from these 
data, I feared, my dear Henry, that the poor 
girl's heart was not her own. I thought proper 
once to hint to her that if even you had wronged 
her, I would see her righted. ' For God's 
sake,' exclaimed she, ' never let such a suspi- 
cion cross your mind ; and assure him, from 
me, I beseech you, that I fully understand, ap- 
preciate, and approve his conduct.' After her 
lest trip to the bower she became much more 
cheerful, but sunk rapidly. To gratify her, we 
placed her in a room where she could look out 
on the mountain alluded to, arid see also her 
cherished bower ; and the best medical aid 
which the mountains could afford was in at- 
tendance. She, however, declined daily and 
rapidly, the beauties of her heart and mind 
coming into bolder relief, and her astonishing 
meekness, gentleness, and gratitude increasing 
hourly. She saw clearly that her end was 
near, and so boundless was the goodness of her 
heart, that she actually begged her foster-pa- 
rents to forgive her for leaving them so soon ! 
She over and over made them say they were 
not sorry that she had left them to go to Ala- 
mance ; and, blaming herself for having been so 
reserved and silent when she first returned, she 
said she could now talk to them on every sub- 
ject interesting to them and to her. And so 
she did, chatting away with lively animation 
day and night, except when occasionally she 
enjoyed a quiet slumber. At these times, and 
before she fell asleep, she would invariably take 
an affectionate leave of us all, and then shake 
hands again when she awoke. On one occa- 
sion she desired to be raised in bed, that she 



might look out upon the mountains ; and, after 
gazing for some time in silence, she said, with 
a faint smile, 'How beautiful does Nature 
seem ; oh, how I have loved it ! Now, mother, 
cover my eyes, and let me sleep.' We took an 
affectionate leave of her as usual, and, casting 
on us all a look of the most tender interest, she 
closed her eyes. As she seemed to slumber 
unusually long, we at last removed the hand- 
kerchief from her face, and found that she was 
indeed asleep ! — after life's brief and fitful fever, 
at rest forever ! Her eyes were closed, her 
hands crossed upon her breast, and her face — 
oh, how natural and beautiful did it seem in 
death ! A smile, a sweet, gracious smile was 
still lingering on her pale, fair features, and it 
was only when we touched her cold, earthy 
flesh we could realize that her spirit had gone 
back to Heaven, as pure and spotless as when 
first breathed by the breath of the Almighty into 
its beautiful tabernacle of clay. It had found 
at last its native country ; it had gone back to 
that happy land from which it had been briefly 
exiled, and her return was greeted, by troops of 
her angelic kindred, by one of the sweetest an- 
thems ever heard in heaven ! She had given 
particular instructions about her burial, request- 
ing to be laid in her woodland bower, under the 
tree on which her name was carved, and that 
no monument be erected to her memory. She 
had also desired me to bury with her the book 
and handkerchief to which I have alluded, say- 
ing, ' These have been my dearest friends, my 
sweetest companions. They have talked to 
me of home, of kindred, of love ; they only have 
connected me with earth, and as they have ever 
been with me while living, let them lie on my 
bosom in the grave.' In all things were her 
wishes obeyed ; and next day, while the dew 
was yet glittering on the tender grass, when 
flowers were wearing their richest bloom, and 
giving out their sweetest odour, and birds were 
singing their gayest songs, we laid her in the 
earth in her rustic bower, and there we sat 
down and wept. It was hard for us to think 
she was not still among us, while all Nature 
seemed to be so bright and merry ; and oh, how 
sore were our hearts when we returned to the 
empty and silent house, and remembered that 
we had left her in the woods, deep buried for- 
ever in the dark, cold, cold earth ! Her soft 
voice still seems ringing in our ears— =-her sweet 
smile still irradiates our hearts at times ; but 
while we are listening for a light and airy step, 
and some one unconsciously enquires for the 
cause of her long absence, we involuntarily 
turn our eyes to the bower, and there see the 
sad, fresh mound of earth, which tells its own 
and most melancholy tale ! Our good friends, 
the Neals, are heart-broken, and I consider it 
to be my sacred duty to remain with and com- 
fort them all I can. Though I am unutterably 
sad myself, my sympathies are strongly awak- 
ened in behalf of these good old people, the 
light of whose hearts has fled, and whose gray 
hairs are rapidly sinking with sorrow to the 
grave. You will please, therefore, give my 
kindest regards to all at Alamance, and look for 
me in the autumn. 

. " My heart is too heavy to write another 
line, and so, my friend, farewell ! 

" Hector M'Bride." 



134 



ALAMANCE. 



Mrs. Warden, her son being absent, 
opened this letter, according to the direc- 
tion on the back, and the whole communi- 
ty of Alamance went into mourning for 
Lucy Neal. There was not an eye but 
paid its tribute of tears — not a heart that 
was not shrouded in black — not a tongue 
but often ejaculated, " Alas ! poor Lucy 
Neal !" Some charming verses were writ- 
ten on her death, and set to a tune so pa- 
thetic, so sweet, simple, and sad, that the 
song soon attained a wide popularity, and 
has been handed down to our own times 
by the negroes, among whom alone the 
soul of sweet melody yet lingers. 



CHAPTER LIV. 

" There is, sure, another flood toward, and these 
couples are coming to the ark." — As You Like It. 

Kate Warden was very young, and very 
timid, but she was not too young to fall in 
love with Donald M'Leod, and not too 
timid to murmur out, at last, her consent 
to his propositions of marriage. There 
was a condition annexed, which was, that 
M'Leod should become an American citi- 
zen — a condition to which he very readily 
consented, for his parents^ were living in 
one of the northern States. It now be- 
came necessary for him to visit them ; 
and when he returned, in the latter part of 
October, he set Alamance in a blaze of 
joy by the news of the surrender of Corn- 
wallis. He brought, also, important intel- 
ligence to the master, who, in consequence 
of what he heard, set out in haste for Bos- 
ton. He found that his father's old part- 
ner had proved at last to be a fortunate 
and an honest man ; and from him he re- 
ceived the whole amount of his father's 
stock, with a handsome interest from the 
time it had been under the Bostonian's 
management. This unexpected discovery 
of wealth, and of virtue, where he little 
expected to find either, together with the 
brightening prospects of the American 
cause, very sensibly affected the master's 
feelings, and he returned to Alamance an 
altered man. It is curious to trace this 
change in the tone of his notes, from 
which, with the reader's indulgence, we 
make a few quotations : 

" This excursion" (alluding to his north- 
ern trip) " had a most happy effect upon 
me, and I daily found my heart growing 
younger and fresher. May God forgive 
me for it, I began to imagine that I saw 
virtue and beauty in woman, and formed 
several acquaintances with whom I spent 
my time agreeably. I thought that she, 
woman, was no longer v the semper varium 
et mutabile of the poet Virgil, and I was 
guilty* on several occasions, of the miser- 
able folly of paying compliments and in- 



diting verses in my own name. I saw 
several of my old female acquaintances in 
Philadelphia, and, not having witnessed 
the gradual decay of their charms, I was 
not prepared for a sight so forlorn as their 
withered forms and wrinkled faces pre- 
sented. One of my old gossips — the one 
at whose hands I had received very ill 
usage — was still flourishing in a green old 
maidenhood, the terror of all widowers and 
sedate and elderly bachelors. She had 
become extremely devout, was a thorough, 
bluestocking, and dwelt upon the vanities 
of the world with an unction that would 
have honoured the most ranting Indepen- 
dent in Cromwell's army. She received 
me, so to speak, with open arms, and a 
storm of caresses ; but I was vilely un- 
grateful, and left her as far from the prom- 
ised land of matrimony as when she first 
commenced her pilgrimage thither. All 
things, even inanimate, wore a pleasing 
appearance. Was this but the reflection 
of" my feelings, or was old Nature, con- 
scious of the approaching dawn of better 
things, glowing again with the charms of 
her youth 1 I was inclined to this latter 
opinion, and, in the fullness of my grateful 
heart, went to see the political redeemer 
of our race — the man whose career had 
settled the long-disputed question, whether 
a son of fallen Adam could be truly great. 
How shall I describe my feelings when 
that glorious vision beamed upon my sight? 
Although he was surrounded by fine-look- 
ing and illustrious men, I knew him as 
soon as I laid my eyes upon him; for 
among them he, 

' in shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tower.' 

I stood for a long time gazing on him, 
and the longer I looked the more was I 
impressed by the majesty of that face, 
which 1 felt was to be stamped on the 
hearts of all generations of men. For a 
while I could scarcely realize my situa- 
tion, and was. nearly overpowered by my 
feelings as I looked down the dim vista 
of future years, and saw the gathering 
glories that would cluster around the mem- 
ory of the man who stood living and breath- 
ing before me. And this, thought I, is 
Washington, whose name, in all languages 
under heaven, will become as familiar as 
household words ! I reverently took his 
hand, and hardly thought it flesh and blood 
till he spoke to me. Yes, I heard the 
voice of Washington ! I told him I was 
an humble pedagogue who had ' done the 
state some service,' and who came to pay 
his respects to his country's greatest man. 
'The schoolmaster shall be the greatest 
man in our Republic' These were his 
very words; and oh that they were graven 
with an iron pen and laid in the rock for- 
ever ! I remembered the language of th» 



ALAMANCE. 



135 



Prophet Isaiah, and thought the time had 
come of which he spoke when he said a 
man should be ' as the shadow of a great 
rock in a weary land.' " 

The master was welcomed back to Ala- 
mance ; and when it was ascertained that 
he had seen General Washington he was 
compelled to relate to every one, children 
included, every minute particular about 
the dress, the manners, the looks, and 
words of the American chief. He was 
as ready to answer as others were to ask ; 
and, though usually a discreet man, he 
ever after, at all places and the most odd 
conjunctures would allude to this inter- 
view ; and " When I saw that great man, 
General Washington," was sometimes the 
prelude to a story inapropos and tedious. 
In the mean time the suits of M'Leod and 
Rust advanced apace ; and the master, 
gratified by the confidence all parties re- 
posed in him, used his best endeavours to 
promote the laudable business of marrying. 
It is singular, but it is, nevertheless, true, 
that he even -came to be considered as au 
fait in affairs of the heart, and every day 
was visited by some forlorn gallant, who 
poured into his faithful bosom the oft- 
repeated tale of woman's folly and perver- 
sity. He listened patiently to the moment- 
ous narration of little quarrels and cross- 
es, and looked on with a sturdy gravity, 
while his garrulous clients ran over, with 
many flourishes and circumlocutions, the 
whole catalogue of the words, looks, 
frowns, smiles, nods, and gestures of their 
mysterious mistresses. He gave good ad- 
vice, assisted in the composition of letters 
and verses, and sometimes delivered mes- 
sages. As all the world is ruled by fash- 
ion, there was in those days a vast deal of 
love-making done at Alamanca, and a brisk 
business in the way of weddings was short- 
ly expected. It was, however, in all cases 
agreed to wait for the arrival of Henry 
Warden, and thus the return of that popu- 
lar young gentleman was expected with a 
lively interest; a solicitude, by the way, 
in which some of his female friends par- 
ticipated. 



CHAPTER LV. 

HOME AGAIN AFTER A LONG ABSENCE. 

The Warden mansion was refitted, the 
estate repaired, and the place beginning to 
wear its former appearance. All the liv- 
ing, except Henry, were again gathered to 
their former home, and with them, dwell- 
ing as a member of the family, was Donald 
M'Leod. The master chose to reside 
mostly with Mrs. Mayfield; and to Edith, 
who had become a favourite with him, he 
confided all the love secrets which he 
heard. She shared, with him, an interest 



in such things, and having, from expe- 
rience, learned the fatal effects of incon- 
siderate and hasty pets and quarrels, she 
made it her business to heal divisions and 
bring about a fair understanding between 
enamoured couples. Her influence with 
the ladies was very great, and her advice, 
which was gently insinuated and never 
given in the shape of lectures, was always 
wholesome and judicious, for misfortunes 
and reflection had made her wise beyond 
her sex. There was not a poor, an un- 
happy, or a needy wretch whom her char- 
ity did not reach, and she was felt as a 
blessing through all Alamance, though, 
none but God and the receivers knew of 
her bounties. She knew all the neigh- 
bourhood histories by heart, and every day 
she might be seen in some unhappy home, 
listening to the good wife's long detail of 
accideYits and misfortunes. She often vis- 
ited the Wardens, whom she found much 
depressed at the long absence of Henry, 
from whom they had not heard since the 
battle of Guilford. Indeed, George War- 
den and his lady began secretly to mourn 
their son as lost, when suddenly one day 
the cry of " Master Henry ! Master Hen- 
ry !" brought the white people to the door, 
whence they saw old Ben and a troop of 
negro boys running like mad down the 
lane, shouting, whooping, and flinging up 
their hats. In a few minutes a single 
horseman emerged from the skirt of a 
wood beyond the bridge, and then from 
field, cabin, and mansion-house another 
shout was raised, and Kate Warden, utter- 
ly forgetting the presence of her lover, 
bounded off like a young roe to meet her 
brother. The latter was dragged from his 
horse at the bridge by the negroes, in the 
midst of whom he slowly moved along, at 
least half a dozen of them holding by the 
skirts of his coat, and the whole crowd 
keeping up such a crying and yelling as 
was never heard before. In this fashion 
they moved up the lane, the negroes, with 
the whole force of their melodious voices, 
rolling out a most affecting triumphal song 
with the burden t 

" O-ho — O-ho, Master Henry's come again !"*j 
and old Ben, with the big tears streaming 

* The author well recollects having often heard 
this air when a boy ; and, though very simple, he still 
thinks it one of the most beautiful and pathetic he 
ever heard. In all the different sets of words the 
burden was some sort of family reunion, and the 
most popular were those beginning 

" O-ho — O-ho, Master William's coming home !" 

The tune is extremely like that known as " Long 
time ago," of which it is the original. This latter, 
which is only one of a thousand like it, has been 
rescued from oblivion by appropriate poetry. What 
Burns or Moore will confer a lasting obligation on 
every lover of good music by composing words foe 
the others ? Here is a wide field for our Southern 
bards. 



136 



ALAMANCE. 



down his face, leading the band, swaying 
his head to and fro, and clapping his hands, 
till he became so happy that he suddenly 
cut the music short, bellowing out, " Glory 
be to the eternal God 'Almighty, Master 
Henry's come again !" Henry walked on 
in silence, and weeping like a very child 
till he met his sister. The negroes now 
made way for her, and flying into his arms, 
she hung about his neqk, kissing him on 
every part of his- face, as he did also with 
her, till their overcharged hearts had re- 
lieved themselves and they were able, with 
their hands locked together, to continue 
on to the house. Here followed another 
scene, the father dropping some silent 
tears, and the mother holding her son to 
her breast as if fearful some one would 
force him from her. M'Leod, who, from 
proper feelings, had withdrawn, now.came 
in, and after him a multitude of slaves, in- 
cluding old and young, male and female, 
the halt, the lame, and the blind. Among 
the first things that Henry heard was the 
news of Edith Mayfield's safe return to 
Alamance ; and, desiring at once to inform 
her of his arrival, and that he would visit 
her early next day, he went out to look 
for Ben. That faithful servant, however, 
was nowhere to be found. He had, as 
it afterward appeared, taken the fleetest 
horse in the stables, and, like a Highland 
courier, went flying over the neighbour- 
hood, shouting, as he passed each house, 
that Master Henry had returned. Thus it 
happened, that in the course of that very 
evening a number of his friends called on 
Warden, and among them were Ben Rust, 
Hector M'Bride, and the men who had 
fought at the battle of Camden. But 
though Henry was truly glad to see his 
family and his friends, and though he had 
much to tell, and much to hear, that was 
to him the longest evening and night he 
had ever spent. His toilet next morning 
was more attended to than it had been for 
years ; and, leaving the master at his fa- 
ther's, he started early for the Mayfields. 
As he neared the house he was met by a 
servant, who said that his mistress desired 
him, for God's sake, to return immediate- 
ly, as Miss Edith had the night before been 
taken ill with the small-pox. " If there 
were forty devils in the house I would en- 
ter it," exclaimed Warden, impatiently 
spurring on his horse, and paying no at- 
tention to the entreaties of the slave. In 
the yard he was met by Mrs. Mayfield, 
who in vain tried to conceal her emotion, 
and who, after a considerable struggle with 
herself, repeated the information of the 
servant. 

" How is it possible that you can tell the 
disease so soon V asked Henry ; " I thought 
it took several days to develope its char- 
acter." 

" I km familiar with the symptoms," 



answered Mrs. Mayfield, "and so is the 
doctor, who agrees with me that it is cer- 
tainly the small-pox." 

" My dear Mrs. Mayfield," said Henry, 
"I am not afraid for myself; and to pre- 
vent my carrying the disease abroad I will 
remain with you till Edith recovers. If it 
is not indelicate, do, I beseech you, for 
God's sake, let me see her ; let me only 
get a glimpse of her face." 

" I am extremely sorry that it is impos- 
sible," replied Mrs. Mayfield. " Edith is in. 
bed and quite unwell, and it is her own 
request that you should come no nearer. 
For myself, I am inclined to gratify your 
wishes, even at the risk of your safety ; 
but you know I would not tell you a story 
when I say she insists that you return at 
once. I will bear your love to her, how- 
ever, and bring you her answer." 

" Do, if you please, and ask her how it 
is possible for me to serve her." 

The good woman soon returned, bring- 
ing a kind message from Edith, and a 
request that Henry would instantly return, 
and wait patiently till she recovered. . He 
had to submit, and went home with a heavy 
heart. His news astonished and affected 
every body ; and the master, who had been 
inoculated, after arranging with Henry a 
plan of communication, immediately took 
his leave. Henry Warden had now leis- 
ure to hear the history of Lucy Neal ; and, 
occupied as he was with thoughts for 
Edith's safety, he found time sincerely to 
mourn for his tender friend of the mount- 
ains. He deeply lamented that he had 
ever seen her, and although while with her 
he had acted with more than mortal firm- 
ness and prudence, he bitterly condemned 
himself, and even went so far as to consult 
the Rev. Dr: Caldwell upon the morality 
of his conduct. The reverend gentleman 
resolved his doubts ; and with a lighter 
conscience he went every day to see the 
master, and hear from Edith. She soon 
took a turn for the better, and rapidly re- 
covered ; but when Henry thought he might 
see her with impunity he was astounded 
by the reception of the following note : 

" Me. Warden : 
" If you would consult your own happiness 
and mine, you must forget me. That you may 
not think me unreasonable, I need only remind 
you of the sad and lasting injury the small-pox 
does to personal beauty. It is true I had little 
before, but then I was not a fright. Think on 
me as on the dead, and know that I pray for 
your happiness. Adieu ! 

" Edith Mayfield. " 

Henry sent a thousand urgent messages 
by the master, and finding them of no avail,' 
he took to writing ; and as his correspon- 
dence may be interesting to those in love, 
it is given in the following chapter. 



ALAMANC V E. 



137 



CHAPTER LVI. 

Letter First, from Henry Warden to Edith 
Mayfield. 
"Dear Edith, 

" I am loath to question, in any particular, 
the reasonableness of your conduct ; but 1 
must be permitted to say, that I think you are 
now acting strangely. Do not, I beseech you, 
understand me as chiding you; I would not, 
for my own right hand, utter an unkind word. 
I have never done it. From a child I have 
ever loved you more than my own life, and in 
all my wanderings and trials your image has 
ever been present to my heart. I have never, 
for a moment, ceased to think of you for years; 
but how have 1 thought of you 1 Not as (what 
you were most truly) a beautiful lady ; not as 
an heiress ; not as connected with any thing 
temporal or perishable. Having grown up with 
you, it is your mind and heart, your soul, if I 
may say so, which I have learned to love ; and 
as long as these remain what they were and 
what they are, I shall never cease to love you 
and think you beautiful. Your voice, I doubt 
not, still sounds with its wonted melody ; your 
temper still serene, the goodness of your heart 
boundless, the beauties of your mind rich, rare, 
and enchanting. Do you suppose that, had it 
pleased Providence to unite 'us, I would not 
have loved you with tender devotion till your 
latest breath 1 And yet we see that personal 
beauty soon begins to fade. I declare to you, 
solemnly, that, be you what you may, you are 
still as dear, far dearer than you ever were be- 
fore. Then, if you love me, why not let me 
see you'? If you love me, why bury yourself 
from the world 1 If you love me, why need 
you care what others think of your appearance'! 
Oh, for Heaven's sake, let me see you, if it is 
only once. 

" With the most sincere devotion, I remain 
yours, 

" Henry Warden." 

Edith's Answer. 
" Mr. Warden, 
" I had hoped that, after my first note, it 
would not -be necessary for me to write again. 
It seems to me that you are infatuated — I say 
it respectfully — and that you are permitting 
your imagination to deceive you. You think 
you regard me with affection, and, indeed, it is 
possible that you may; but is it not Edith as 
she was that you love 1 Tell me, when you 
think of me now, do you see, in your mind's 
eye, a form emaciated and bent ; a face deeply 
pitted and scarred, eyes bleared, and head 
almost entirely bald ? Is not this a disgusting 
picture 1 And yet you force me to draw it, and 
would be guilty of the indelicacy of looking on 
it. As soon as you see me there will be a 
terrible revulsion in your feelings, and you 
could not even respect me again. Need I 
say more to a gentleman of your sensibilities 1 
Please burn this. Adieu ! 

" Edith Mayfield." 

Letter Second, from Henry Warden. 
"My Dear Edith, 
" With natural diffidence I used, in my 
former letter, the. simple prefix of 'dear? I 



now take the liberty of prefixing ' my' to that. 
You are mine, for you do not deny that you 
once have loved me. If we gave our hearts to 
each other, were we not married in the sight 
of Heaven 1 And you know the solemn in- 
junction, 'Whom God hath joined, let no man 
put asunder !' Edith, my dear, dear Edith, 
what do you take me for 1 Is it possible that 
you have regarded me as a giddy body, a light- 
hearted, gay Lothario, one of those dull com- 
pounds of animated clay, who are incapable 
of a feeling that is not conveyed through the 
medium of the senses 1 If you did, then such 
a being as you never could have loved me ; 
if you did not, then you ought to know, that it 
was not your face, and its fading ornaments, 
that won the adoration of my soul. I have 
attentively regarded the picture which you 
have drawn : I have even added some darker 
touches ; and I say, in all sincerity, and God is 
my witness, I love you ! and there is no power 
in eloquence, or in poetry, to express what I 
mean by that simple sentence. I can express 
it only by my actions ; by a constant devotion, 
a boundless tenderness, a ceaseless exertion 
of every faculty of soul and body to minister to 
your happiness while you live. Try me, oh, try 
me, I beseech you ; and if I prove not, to the 
letter, what I have promised, may my name be 
covered with perpetual infamy ! Edith ! I am 
not infatuated : I am not deceived by my 
imagination. I have gone through many 
trials ; I have been sobered by years of ad- 
versity ; I have had time to, reflect and weigh 
things dispassionately. We have both gone 
through a fiery ordeal ; and now, with en- 
larged and proper views, with chastened de- 
sires, and hearts purified from all the giddy 
vanities of youth, although we are yet young, 
how happy, how lastingly happy could we be 
together ! Again I entreat you, I beg you, if 
you have any regard for my happiness — if you 
would not make me a wreck, a gloomy, mis- 
anthropic wretch for life, let me see you ! let 
met touch your hand again ; let me hear, if 
but once, the dear, dear sound of your voice ! 
Please, please let me see you, and then you 
may impose your own conditions. I want , 
only a chance of speaking to you, for I cannot 
convey my earnest thoughts by letter, 

" With the most tender and lasting affec- 
tion, 

" Henry Warden." 

In about a week the following answer 
was returned : 

" Mr. Warden, 
"Why do you continue to persecute me? 
I ask you again — nay, I command you, forget 
" Edith Mayfield." 

Letter Third from Henry Warden. 
"My Dearest Edith: I have ever been 
ready to obey your commands till now. You 
order ine to do an impossibility, and I tell you 
plainly, and once for all, I cannot, I will not 
forget you. Forget you ! Forget the sweetest 
hope of my life, the only object that binds me 
to earth ! It is you who are infatuated ; it is 
you who have permitted your own darkly brood- 
ing imagination to deceive you. Edith ! my 
dearest Edith, why do you not listen to reason ? 



138 



ALAMANCE. 



Why do you not, if you can, answer my let- 
ters 1 Does not my whole life prove how ar- 
dently, how constantly, how truly I have loved 
youl Has not my affection been tested by 
every sort of discouraging obstacle — by your 
own apparent coldness, by long absence, by 
severe temptations 1 Was I not, after a long 
absence from you — after you had slighted, in- 
sulted, and spurned me — thrown into the society 
of a most beautiful and enchanting creature, 
whose untimely end we all lament 1 Have not 
beauty, wit, elegance, flattery, wealth, and par- 
tiality in vain made attempts upon my heart 1 
Again, you do not deny that you love me ; and, 
as you are acting without reason, I'll tell you 
what I mean to do. I intend to persecute you 
with letters every day; I'll send messengers, 
I'll beset your path, waylay you, watch night 
and day for you until I see you. If you expect 
to get rid of me, you must lock yourself in your 
room, and there remain, and never see a hu- 
man being, for I'll bribe every servant on the 
place to petition you in my behalf. The siege 
is now regularly commenced, and you may as 
well surrender at once. 
" Yours, in the bonds of eternal love. 

" Henky Warden." 

The next day Henry Warden received 
the following answer: 

" Mr. Warden : As you seem to be so cruel- 
minded, I will grant your request, but on this 
express condition : You are barely to see me 
and speak to me, and then retire to persecute 
me no more. You must exhibit no emotion ; 
speak not of love, and never mention the ugli- 
ness of my person. I trust to your honor in 
this, and hope, as you are a gentlemen, you will 
consult my wishes. 

" Edith Mayfield." 

Warden was so overjoyed at this per- 
mission, that he was upon the road before 
he began to reflect on the consequences of 
his visit. It now struck him all at once 
that Edith might be right, and the nearer 
he approached the more he dreaded the 
effect of her altered looks. His reflections 
took a gloomy turn, and he again remem- 
bered the advice of the master. He re- 
membered, also, Lucy Neal, and she now 
rose before his imagination more beautiful, 
more tender and lovely than she had ever 
seemed before. " What a strange fate has 
been mine," thought he ; " how do all 
things conspire to teach me the folly of 
love. I have contended with fate — I have 

mistaken my destiny — I have " but he 

was now at the gate. 

The servant who took his horse seemed 
sad; every thing about the place looked 
gloomy, and even Mrs. Mayfield received 
him with a mournful look. It appeared to 
Warden that she tried hard to conceal her 
extreme dejection, and he thought she 
looked as if she was sorry he had come. 
Saying to him, with a faint effort at a smile, 
" Brace your nerves, Mr. Warden," she re- 
tired, an opposite door opened, and War- 
den, turning, beheld Edith Mayfield, blush- 



ing like the morning, beautiful as the first 
star of evening. She faltered at the door, 
and Warden, catching her in his arms, the 
past and the future vanished from the 
minds of each, themselves, their situation, 
and every thing else were forgotten in the 
ecstacy of that blissful moment. The 
minute-hand of the clock performed a rev- 
olution, and Warden was still pressing 
Edith in his arms, occasionally raising her 
drooping head from his bosom to look into 
her tearful eyes and fervently touch his 
lips to hers, while at every kiss she wept 
as if her heart were breaking. Something 
was said by each — Warden, particularly, 
murmured many broken sentences, but 
neither knew then, nor ever have since, 
what they were. He at length recovered 
himself sufficiently to ask her why she 
wept ; " I cannot help it," was her answer, 
and again she wept and sobbed convulsive- 
ly. He must needs press her still more 
closely and kiss her again, and so they 
continued, for how long no one knows. 
She had proved his affection — she was sat- 
isfied he had loved only her, and so, totally 
forgetting her promised lecture about per- 
secutions, she permitted him to set a day 
for their nuptials. 

The master looked very quizzically at 
Warden when he returned, and, taking him 
aside, he asked, with great gravity, " Didn't 
you find that 1 the small-pox had made her- 
a real monster ?" 

" Pshaw !" exclaimed Warden ; " why did 
you try to fool me so ?" 

The services of the Rev. Dr. Caldwell 
were now in great demand at Alamance, 
and the good old gentleman eased many 
an aching heart. 



CHAPTER LVII. 

" Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to rriind ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And the days of auld lang syne ?" 

Auld Lang Syne. 

" The taste of Mrs. Warden and Of her 
beautiful daughter and daughter-in-law 
suggested these floral decorations ; but I 
may say, without vanity, that they were 
indebted to my skill for their execution. 
It is true I received some assistance from 
old black Ben, but he was clumsy and 
awkward ; and as for those young gallants, 
Henry Warden and Donald M'Leod, they 
were too entirely absorbed with the con- 
templation of their newly-married wives 
to be worth a fig for any other purpose. 
Upon the arch of the great gate, and on 
both sides, were arranged festoons of flow- 
ers, those on the outside being of a lilac 
colour, and formed into letters so as to 
spell very distinctly, 'Independence,' and 
those on the inside and fronting the house 
being of a deep crimson, and so adjusted 



ALAMANCE. 



130 



as to make the word ' Liberty' legible at a 
great distance. Above each was the name 
of ' Washington,' formed of beautiful white 
roses, and around and beneath were various 
emblematic representations, all formed of 
.flowers whose various hues were so blend- 
ed and contrasted as to make a most de- 
lightful picture. Again, above the front 
door of the house appeared the name of 
' Washington' in white roses, and under it 
and formed of different coloured blossoms 
were, ' Peace, Liberty, and Independence.' 
Festoons, garlands, and crowns hung from 
the boughs of different trees, and over the 
walk, between the gate and house, was a 
magnificent ' W,' formed of floral chains 
that ran from tree to tree, and attached to 
which there hung pendulous ornaments of 
the most beautiful taste and finish, and 
representing the thirteen United States." 

This above extract is taken from that 
part of the master's notes where he gives 
a very minute and elaborate account of the 
preparations made at Warden's for another 
great entertainment. As was the case in 
regard to the Christmas dinner, of which 
we have before given an account, invita- 
tions were sent to nearly all the Aiaman- 
cers, and though it was an evening party, 
the guests were expected to arrive at least 
an hour before night. Accordingly, as the 
sun was declining in the glowing west, 
they came pouring in from all quarters of 
the compass, and soon every Whig family 
in the whole community was fully repre- 
sented. When the company had all col- 
lected, and the usual salutations had passed, 
they were all requested to attend at a car- 
peted platform in the yard, which had been 
formed under one of the largest trees, and 
on which stoo.d an empty arm-chair. In a 
few minutes George Warden came leading 
out an aged matron, and placing her in the 
chair, spoke as follows : ~" My friends, be- 
hold the mother of Alamance ! She lost 
an only son in the war, and lo ! she has 
found a host, of children !" 

" Hail, mother of Alamance !" cried the 
assembled multitude ; and each one pressed 
forward to kiss her hand. 

When they had all paid this. tribute of 
reverence to their adopted mother, she 
arose, and, with a trembling voice and 
outstretched arms, exclaimed—" My chil- 
dren — my children, the blessing of God be 
with you all !" She could say no more ; 
and, completely overcome by her emotions, 
was supported into the house. There was 
now a loud cry of " Edith Mayfieid ! Edith 
Warden !" and, trembling and blushing, she 
was led by the master and by her husband 
upon the platform. Her appearance was 
greeted with a tremendous shout ; and, amid 
cries of "crown her! crown her queen!" 
a band of ladies ascended the platform 
and placed a beautiful coronet of flowers 
and evergreens upon her head. " Three 



cheers for Henry Warden!" were next 
called for and given, whereupon Ben Rust 
mounted the platform, and, calling for si- 
lence, said, " My Christin friends, you've 
all heern of the history of Edith Mayfieid, 
that was, and how she was saved by the 
beautiful Flora M'Donald. I told her when 
we all got to Alamance we'd give her three 
everlastin cheers ; and I want you all now 
to holler as if you were hallooin to some 
one in the moon !" The injunction was 
obeyed, and then came three shouts for 
General Greene, and three times three for 
General Washington. The shadows of 
evening were dispersing into darkness, 
rows of suspended lamps and candles be- 
gan to twinkle through the grove, and the 
master, with a long manuscript in his hand, 
rose upon the platform. "All hats off," 
said he, " while I now read over this im- 
mortal list — this scroll more honourable to 
those whose names are on it than the 
lying pages of heraldry or the Golden Book 
of Venice. Here my friends are the orig- 
inal resolutions signed at the memorable 
exhibition at the old field, school ; and now 
we will see who has fallen in the strife, 
who proved recreant, and who still live to 
reap the glorious rewards of their deeds. 
The names of the miscreants who broke 
their solemn pledges are marked with the 
word traitor after each, and those of our 
friends who are now no more with stars 
or asterisks. My own name it is unne- 
cessary to call, for I stand here before 
you." 

"We'll cheer you though," some one 
said, and at it they went. 

" David Caldwell !" said the master. 
" Here !" was the answer, and again three 
deafening shouts rent the air. The mas- 
ter continued : " Edward Forbes !" There 
was a deep silence for a minute, when the 
master exclaimed, " Eternal honour to his 
name and everlasting peace to his soul !" , 
" Amen !" responded the audience ; and at 
the next call groans and hisses resounded 
through the company. Thus the call was 
continued, the multitude sometimes hiss- 
ing, sometimes shouting, and at others pre- 
serving a sad and solemn silence. When 
the names of Ben Rust and Warden's Ben 
were pronounced, those two worthies were 
first cheered separately and then together, 
and finally forced upon the stage, where 
their awkward appearance was greeted 
with shouts, laughter, and a variety of ex- 
pressions indicating their great popularity. 
" And now," said the master, solemnly, " I 
will call one for whose name you have 
all been listening. I have reserved it pur- 
posely for the last, that meet and proper 
hOjiiours may be paid to the memory of 
the heroic dead. Brave in battle, constant 
in friendship, just and generous in all the 
relations of life, that mighty heart is now 
cold forever ! Cornelius Demijohn !" 



rio 



ALA M A N C E. 



" Here !" thundered a sonorous and por- 
tentous voice in the direction of the gate, 
and the multitude, looking round, were* as- 
tonished and confounded at what they saw. 
, Notwithstanding the unspiritual tramp 
of Uncle Corny's feet, the Alamancers 
were inclined to the belief that they saw 
a ghost, and shrunk shyly from the ap- 
proaching apparition, until Henry War- 
den, calling for immediate attention, said : 
" You need not be afraid, my friends. 
Uncle Corny was with me in the army of 
General Greene ; he returned with me ; 
and, as we came to his mother's first, 
and there learned that he was generally 
mourned as dead, it was agreed that he 
should remain secluded at home until 
some public gathering should take place, 
when he was suddenly to make his ap- 
pearance. I assure you that you see no 
ghost; and if you will handle him, you 
will find he is a most substantial mass of 
living flesh." 

They did handle him now, much to the 
amusement of some, and greatly to his 
own fatigue ; for, what with the hugging 
and kissing of the ladies, the shaking of 
his hands by the men, and the annoyances 
of the children who swung by the skirts 
of his coat and climbed up his legs, he 
was soon completely out of breath, and 
panted more fiercely, and sweated more 
profusely than he had done in the hottest 
engagement on the field of battle. Next, 
in the fullness of their hearts, the Ala- 
mancers called for Donald M'Leod ; and, 
as he rose upon the stage, he was saluted 
with enthusiastic and prolonged applause. 
The tears started down the young sol- 
dier's face ; and as he said, " I know to 
whom I am indebted for this — neverthe- 
less, I am now an American in heart and 
soul," the uproar became tremendous. At 
length, the Rev. Dr. Caldwell was brought 
upon his legs ; but had he spoken in trum- 
pet-tones, nobody could have heard a word 
he said, so great had become the excite- 
ment of the multitude, and so furiously 
did they shout around him. Supper was 
now announced, and was duly honoured 
in an arbour constructed for the purpose. 
After this, to the tune of " Auld Lang 
Syne," was sung a beautiful song of the 
master's composition.* 

Those who could, and those who 
couldn't sing, joined fiercely in the cho- 
rus, and it is impossible to say how many 
absurd and foolish things were done while 



* This song, which was long a favourite one at 
Alamance, is among the master's papers. We 
have preferred to leave it out, as well as that on 
the death of Lucy Neat: 1st, because there are 
innumerable sets of words to both airs, and we 
might, therefore, be accused of plagiarism ; and, 
2nd, because we have already given, perhaps, too 
many specimens of the master's verse, and prefer 
to keep these, the best, till they are called for in 
another edition. — Ed. 



all hearts were in a state of fusion. Old 
ladies and young were very passive — hus- 
bands were not particular as to whose 
wives they hugged and kissed, and the 
master — he confesses it himself — even the 
master embraced at least a dozen with the 
most affectionate fervour before he knew 
what he was about. There were two per- 
sons, however, whom the music caused 
only to think of each other. Their eyes 
met, and their hands were joined when 
the song commenced; and long before it 
was over, Edith was weeping, in the arms 
of Henry Warden, who was straining her 
to his bosom, and kissing her as tenderly 
and incessantly as if he had not seen her 
before for years. But this was done in a 
corner ; and every body was too busy with 
his and her own emotions to observe it. 
What other things were done, and what 
said, lo ! they are written in the Book of 
the Chronicles of Alamance. 

Letter from the Master to his friend, J. R., of 
Philadelphia. 
Mountain Home, December 1st, 179- 

" My dear Sir — When you were at Ala- 
mance, you seemed pleased with the perusal of 
my 'Notes,' and were good enough to express 
a desire to hear the future history of some of 
those who had been so happily reunited. The 
task is a grateful one to me, for I am about to 
record what should make the heart of every 
philanthropist throb with pleasure. My friend, 
there is yet hope for the world ; our race may 
yet be happy. I have seen with my own eyes 
two things which, from the beginning, our 
fathers wished in vain to see — two things of 
which much has been said and more written 
since the foundation of the world, but which 
have been reserved for this our blessed day and 
generation. / have seen a great man and a hap- 
py love ; with my own eyes have I seen them. 
That part of this is true you will not dispute ; 
that you may know the other part is equally 
certain, I will detail to you some particulars 
that must interest every lover of his race. My 
opportunities for judging have been good ; for 
though all Alamance is my home, and though I 
have furnished apartments and keep a servant 
at George Warden's, Esther Bell's, and here, 
most of my library is at this place, where I 
spend the larger portion of my time. I have 
been, too, a curious observer, and you know on 
which side my prejudices leaned, 

"I look upon Henry Warden and his accom- 
plished lady as the most remarkable people I ' 
have ever known. They have now been mar- 
ried several years, and, will you believe me, he 
is as gracious, attentive, and tender, and she as 
affectionate, gentle, and devoted as on the week 
of their nuptials. With the native modesty, 
diffidence, and sensibility for which each is re- 
markable, they studiously avoid all fond displays 
in public, and yet it may be observed that in all 
places and at all times their eyes, full of soft 
meaning, will steal towards eadh other, and 
that their souls are thus in constant and secret 
communion. On all subjects, from the greatest 
to the smallest, theyjthijji-as.acUy alike, and 
while he regards her as the perfection of all 



ALAMANCE. 



lil 



that is chastely fair, purely innocent, discreet, 
and tender, he is, in her eyes, the mirror of all 
the heroic virtues, of manliness, generosity, 
and intellectual beauty. They are kind to their 
Eeighbors, social in their dispositions, and dear- 
ly beloved through all Alamance ; yet it is evi- 
dent that their own inclinations would lead 
thern to seek only the society of each other, 
and that they are happiest when by themselves. 
She is his confident in all things, his counselor 
in all things, his most desired companion and 
his fastest friend ; to him are all her thoughts, 
feelings, and emotions imparted, and to him, 
and him only, does she reveal all she hears. 
Their sensibilities, so far from becoming blunt- 
ed by familiarity with each other, become daily 
more refined, each one improving by the union 
— he in gentleness and purity of manners, and 
she in intelligence, prudence, and matronly 
grace and dignity. His honor and his welfare 
absorb her existence ; her happiness is the 
chief end of his. They never separate, even 
for a day, without a most affecting leave-taking ; 
he writes to her every day while absent; and 
when he returns, which is always punctually at 
the hour agreed, she hangs fondly about his 
neck, kissing him as tenderly and sometimes 
weeping as joyfully as if she were a bride of 
ten days' standing. They sit in church, and 
walk, when by themselves, with hands locked 
together ; and often, when he stays longer than 
usual in his study, she will steal softly to the 
door, and, if no one is present, will throw her 
arms about him and embrace him with the 
greatest playfulness and most tender affection. 
She is a most tidy housekeeper ; personally su- 
perintends all her household affairs, and, study- 
ing her husband's tastes, arranges every thing 
exactly according to his notions. When com- 
pany is present, she lets her husband lead in 
the conversation, and it is gratifying and amus- 
ing to see how her eyes sparkle and her cheeks 
glow at every witty or eloquent sally that falls 
from his lips. Occasionally she reads to him, and 
copies letters and papers for him ; but at such 
times she makes little progress, being perpetu- 
ally interrupted by the amorous caresses of her 
lord. When they did not know there was a 
looker-on, I have seen them sitting together in 
the great arm-chair, reading out of the same 
book, and being affected by the same emotions 
at the same time : they would, every now and 
then, look into each other's eyes, smiling or 
shedding tears, touch their lips together, and 
then, without saying a word, continue to read. 
They have two children — two scions worthy 
of the parent stock. The oldest is a bright- 
eyed, sturdy, manly boy, who is the constant 
companion and sworn friend of your servant, 
with whom he has some of the rarest frolics. 
Henry wished to name him Washington M l - 
Bride, but Edith would have him called Henry 
Washington. The other is a girl — a real gem 
— a sweet blossom and the exact miniature of 
her mother. Her Edith desired to name after 
the lamented Lucy Neal ; but the husband's 
wishes now prevailed, and she was called after 
her whose name is to him the sweetest of all 
sounds. It is agreed, however, that 1 and Lucy 
shall be remembered, and, in the mean time, I 
may observe that I have been duly honoured 
by others, and particularly by my plain friend, 



Rust, who calls his boy " Young Prox," or 
" Proximus," though his baptismal name is 
Benjamin Warden Hector M'Donald Rust.. 
Ben and Nannie live very quietly and contented- 
ly ; helookingupto Henry Warden as the central 
moral sun of the universe, and she being always 
happy, at any hazard, to pleasure Edith. Don- 
ald M'Leod and Kate are quite happy, living yet 
with George Warden and his wife, who are dil- 
igently employed in spoiling their grandson, 
George Washington M'Leod. It is settled, 
however, that Henry is to live at the old place, 
taking with him his mother-in-law, and that 
Donald and Kate are soon to remove to a place 
near by, where buildings are going up. As to 
Uncle Corny, I am happy to inform you that, 
a year or two ago, he laid regular siege to the f 
fat widow with whom he had the adventure at J 
the exhibition at the old field school ; and thus, 
it is to be hoped, the race of the Demijohns 
will not become extinct. The widow, as Ii 
opine, would be glad to have him any day ; but 
Uncle Corny began at the beginning and car- 
ries on his approaches with great exactitude, 
after the most ancient and approved forms and 
precedents. 

" I could tell him of a Hudibrastic maxim 
about the proper way of courting widows ; but 
he is a grave and punctilious man, and withal 
a good listener, and I would not wound his sen- 
sitive feelings for the world. He is a great 
friend of George Warden ; looks on the father 
as Rust does on the son, and will resent in- 
stantly the least reflection on his friend. The 
old field school is in a flourishing condition, 
being under the care of an estimable and learn- 
ed man of my selection, and subject to my 
constant visitation and supervision. 

" Nathan Glutson, as I have heard, with all 
our other unworthy characters, settled in the 
West, where, it is said, he is now a leading, in- 
fluential, and violent politician, professing to be 
an extreme republican, and having supplanted 
more worthy men who had served their coun- 
try faithfully, but who are not so fluent nor so 
liberal in their indelicate professions of love for 
the people. This is a very probable story, for 
I have myself seen something like it. The 
Alamancers and many worthy citizens of the 
county wished Henry Warden to represent 
them in our State Assembly. Opposed to him 
was a young man whose father I knew to be 
one of the vilest Tories, but from a proper feel- 
ing, I and others who knew the fact, said noth- 
ing about it. Would you believe it 1 this worthy 
scion of a traitorous father declaimed furiously 
about British influence, and had the unblushing 
impudence to arraign Henry Warden as a friend 
to England, because his sister had married Don- 
ald M'Leod ! My young friend, whose refined 
sensibilities were shocked at such demagogue- 
ism, withdrew from the canvass, and resolved. to 
live a private citizen — a resolution by which 
the public will lose infinitely more than himself. 
But such things are natural enough, and must, 
I suppose, be common every where. Those 
whose love of plunder destroyed all their pa- 
triotism and their honesty, drowning conscience 
and all sense of shame, and made them take 
sides against their country in the day of her 
trial, still true to their ruling passion, will novr 
out-Herod Herod, bid adieu to decency, belie 



142 



ALAMANCE. 



all history, and, with the roost brazen effront- 
ery, clamour for the emoluments of office. To 
what, my friend, will such things lead? What 
will be the result of the grand and glorious ex- 
periment we are beginning? Will the people 
be bestrode by demagogues, and our govern- 
ment follow in the track of all republics? Oh, 
that I could live to witness the solution of this 
problem ! But I am in the autumn of my life ; 
I have fallen into the "sere and yellow leaf," 
and, according to the course of nature, must 
soon be gathered to my fathers. Well : I have 
seen Washington, and surely his mission was 
not in vain ; surely, as the Latins have it, 'Nee 
Deus inter sit nisi dignusvindi.ee nodus incident.' 
This reflection is a consolation, for he must 
have been sent for a mighty purpose. 

"I spend my time agreeably, conversing 
gravely with my reverend friend, Dr. Caldwell, 
gossiping with my neighbors, superintending 
the school, correcting my 'Notes,' romping 
with the children, and poring over Cicero de 
Senectate, Aristotle's Politics, Seneca's Morals, 
and Tristram Shandy. If you see , pre- 
sent my best regards to him, and accept for 
yourself assurances of my kind esteem. I 
should be pleased, at all times, to hear from 
you, and remain, 

"Your friend, 

"Hector M'Bride." 



CHAPTER LVIII. 

CONTAINS MORE SENTIMENT THAN INCIDENT, 
AND NOT MUCH OF EITHER. 

Though the gentle pressure of Edith's 
hand, and the soft whispers of her voice, 
were to Henry Warden like a draught of 
Lethe's waters, rendering him oblivious of 
care and sorrow, they did not cause him 
to forget his duties. Now that his own 
happiness was secured, he more than ever 
compassionated the ills of others, and 
found, in the breast where his own anxie- 
ties were buried, a sweet sympathy with 
all his generous wishes and designs. And, 
first, he remembered the Scotchman whom 
Ross had injured ; and, fearing that age and 
want might be pressing hard on the old 
man, he prepared to pay him a visit. The 
country was still in an unsettled state, and 
the roads dangerous ; but Warden, feeling 
bound to undertake the journey, tore him- 
self from the arms of his fair young wife, 
and with his accustomed confidence in the 
special care of an overruling Providence, 
assured her that they would soon and hap- 
pily meet again. He was accompanied 
by his servant Ben, and by his friend the 
master, who expected to be able to add a 
new chapter to his singular experience. 

" I have thought much upon the story 
of Ross," said the last-named, when they 
were on the road, " and it strikes me that 
there are some plausible propositions in 
his remarks." 

Warden. — " To what do you allude ? 



You surely do not wish to discuss with me, 
a married man, the subject of love V' 

M'Bride. — " God forbid ! You are in- 
deed married, my friend, and I would not 
deserve the name of man or Christian could 
I be guilty of using in your presence lan- 
guage calculated to weaken in your mind 
the sacred obligation which you have con- 
tracted. Marriage is a divine institute ; 
and, besides this, you are wedded to one 
whom none but the steeled philosopher 
can see and not adore." 

Warden. — " J would join in that praise, 
but I cannot speak of Edith to my nearest 
friends. I have often thought that those 
who talk freely of their wives, even in 
compliment, are brutes." 

The Master. — " And I think so too. I 
must, however, make one remark about 
my sweet friend, and that is this : I ascer- 
tained, before the day of your nuptials, that 
she was all you had fancied her — such a 
being as I once vainly hoped to find. Now, 
what is the inference to be drawn 1 Some 
accident must happen, otherwise it would 
seem that God's curse upon Adam and his 
seed was intended with exceptions. If 
two such beings as you and Edith are al- 
lowed to live prosperously together, you 
will enjoy an Eden equal almost to that 
from which all are excluded. The curse 
is on our race to the latest posterity ; at 
least, till the ' millennium.' " 

Warden. — " How fallible are men's opin- 
ions ! How can mortals be wise, when 
their reasoning depends entirely on their 
physical organization and on their expe- 
rience ? Now, here are you and myself ; 
both are dispassionate, both honestly de- 
sirous of arriving at truth; and yet how 
widely apart are we in opinion ! You are 
forever desponding — I am always hoping. 
Indeed ' Hope on, hope ever,' is my mot- 
to ; and in the darkest hours I ever believe 
there is a good time coming." 

The Master. — " I can demonstrate that 
you are mistaken. Has not God cursed 
the race, and allotted to us here toil, dis- 
appointment, and sorrow 1 Now if one in- 
dividual can escape this doom all the race 
may also." 

Warden. — "Premises and conclusions 
are conceded. Although in Adam's fall 
the perfect fidelity of the race here was 
wrecked, yet all was not lost. We cannot 
be perfectly happy until we are perfectly 
good, and I very willingly agree that 
none are or can be righteous. Yet we 
may, as individuals, or as a nation, ap- 
proximate the standard of righteousness, 
and our happiness will be proportioned. 
For instance, are not you — a pious, let- 
tered, and temperate man — infinitely more 
happy than the beastly, vicious, and igno- 
rant sot who wallows in filth and sin! 
Even so the man who is better and wiser 
than you may be proportionably happier. 



ALAMANCE. 



143 



But, as I said before, none can be entirely 
blest here, for if no other evil were to be- 
fal us, death— ^death — the most awful ca- 
lamity, is the portion of us all. I expect 
to be contented and happy ; yet I also ex- 
pect occasional disappointments, mortal 
pains, toil, the decrepitude of old age, and 
the pangs of dissolution. Still I will be 
happy ; a good, greater than the evil, will 
follow me, and in the very hour of death 
my soul will dilate with glorious anticipa- 
tions of a blessed immortality." 

M'Bride. — "I acknowledge that there 
are degrees in happiness, and that we are 
blest according to our deeds ; but is it not 
ordained that no one shall go beyond a 
certain point 1 I think so, and I believe 
that individuals and nations have hereto- 
fore been as happy as they will be .hereaf- 
ter. If you will look back on the course 
of things, you will find that there is a cer- 
tain point of improvement beyond which 
we are not allowed to pass." 

Warden. — " So the ancient navigators 
thought in regard to the ocean. For ages 
and ages no one crossed the Atlantic 
Ocean, and it was supposed that no one 
could. To attempt it was. believed to be a 
rebellion against the decrees of the Al- 
mighty ; and yet the madman Columbus 
sailed fearlessly over the forbidden line, 
and discovered a glorious new continent. 
So will it be with our political Columbus ; 
and as much as this continent excels the 
old ones in the fertility of its soil, the 
wealth of its mines, and the beauty and 
grandeur of its scenes, so much shall the 
wisdom and excellence of our government 
excel those of all other forms. I tell you 
there is a good time coming." 

The Master. — " So thought the fabled Si- 
syphus ; so man has thought since the day 
of his fall, and yet every successive gen- 
eration has followed in the beaten track. 
There is, indeed, a good time coming ; He 
that cannot lie has promised it, but it will 
be after the head of the Serpent has been 
bruised— after the old Dragon, man's im- 
mortal enemy, has been seized and bound." 

Warden. — " But will we not conquer him 
by degrees ? — gradually narrow the limits 
of his dominion?" 

The Master. — " He will, I fear, still reign 
in the hearts of a majority, and while that 
is the case, what hope is there 1 The 
fairest, most honest; and best form of gov- 
ernment is the democratic ; but suppose 
we had a democracy or republic. For a 
while the memory of the glorious revolu- 
tion through which we have passed, and 
of the virtues of its actors, would keep 
alive a patriotic spirit ; but this cannot long 
survive. The world is certainly divided 
into two great classes, and the evil ones 
are in the majority. These latter will be 
forever seeking, in all sorts of ways, per 
fas et nefas, to promote their own peculiar 



interests, regardless of the rights of others. 
The others — the minority, who do not so 
desire, will not be let alone — cannot re- 
main fixed in one position. The man who 
resolves to attend to his own business, and 
to be disconnected with the affairs of oth 1 
ers, makes a foolish resolution. Even an 
armed neutrality would be dangerous, for, 
while he stands with his arms folded, his 
rights, reputation, and fortune will be leav- 
ing him." 

Warden. — " Then you think man is the 
common foe of man ?" 

The Master. — " He is, not by design, but 
made so by the ends he aims at. The 
greater number are aiming at pre-emi- 
nence ; at the possession of peculiar pow- 
er, fortune, and privileges. Hence man- 
kind consist, and will consist, of the suers 
and the sued, of plaintiffs and defendants, 
oppressors and oppressed. There is no 
medium class, and those who attempt to 
form one, and to go harmless through the 
world, are common spoil, saved only by the 
contentions of the pirates who may fight 
among themselves over the prize. It will 
not do to retire modestly within yourself, 
hang your head meekly, and shrink timidly 
from the world. Go where you will, to 
the most remote and secluded islet on the 
globe, and some roving plunderer will find 
you out and spoil you of something, mon- 
ey, lands, name, or position, with which to 
enrich himself. I tell you, sir, you are on 
a hostile coast — a great highway of rob- 
bers, as old Burton has it, and at every 
step you must fight or pay tribute to save 
your skin. Thus it has been, thus it is, 
and thus it ever will be ; the industrious 
lowlanders, the honest citizens in the quiet 
vales of life, must be subject to the black- 
mail levy. Sometimes — as in our own re- 
cent case — a whole nation, like a rare in- 
dividual, will resist this tribute, but, before 
it is aware of it, will be paying it to others. 
We refused to be taxed by England, and 
yet, before your hair is gray, we will be 
tributary to a host of politicians and dem- 
agogues, compared with whose exactions 
the Stamp Act, and all its concomitants, 
would have been an easy burden. Alas 
for the world ! I must write a book." 

Warden. — " I have often thought that, 
of all the professions, an author's is the 
most pleasant. He stands aloof from the 
world for whose good he is labouring, and 
with whose evil passions he never comes 
in contact. The statesman, the lawyer, 
and doctor, in the prosecution of their call- 
ings, and the farmer and mechanic in 
making a profit on the produce of their la- 
bour, have to combat with keen-witted and 
insatiable avarice, treachery, envy, and de- 
traction. The author is happily freed from 
this evil." 

The Master. — " You were never more 
mistaken in your life. First, there is the 



144 



ALAMANCE. 



publisher, who wishes to make a fortune 
out of the hard service of your brain, and 
many of whom, totally without conscience, 
would, for a mere pittance, take from the 
needy son of genius works whose value 
all the precious contents of Peru's mines 
could not express. Secondly, there are 
rival authors who are mortal, and who 
scowl with the. v green eye of envy on a 
rising star ; and, lastly, there are your pro- 
fessed critics, the selfish land-sharks in lit- 
erature, the thievish highlanders, piratical 
;rovers, who scour the seas in search of 
plunder, making a living by destroying 
others." 

Warden. — " You are too hard on the 
critics, who, as I had supposed, subserve a 
most useful purpose. They are the cen- 
sors of the press, public benefactors whose 
vocation it is to purify the literature of a 
nation from impurities and immoralities." 
The Master.— "Stuff! stuff! Who's to 
purify the critics ? If these men were ex- 
empted from mortal infirmities — if they 
were the best, the wisest, and discreetest 
of mortals, there might be some reason 
in your argument. But who are they, 
these self-constituted censors, these awful 
judges, who are to direct and instruct au- 
thors and tie up the hands of genius ? 
Miserable scribblers, who, unable to suc- 
ceed as authors, become the plunderers of 
authors. They have an origin in common 
with the footpad and the pickpocket, hav- 
ing turned their wits to the reputable call- 
ing of preying on others. This is the true 
history of your professed critics, and it 
illustrates my theory of the two great 
classes of oppressor and oppressed." 

Warden. — " You cannot make me be- 
lieve that they are not a useful class, and 
subserve, in fact, a most invaluable pur- 
pose." 

The Master.—" So does the buzzard and 
the carrion-crow ; and still they are very 
filthy birds. When did the critics ever 
discover the merits of an author before 
the public found out his worth? Even 
your honest critics are often at fault ; for 
genius is not measured by square and 
compass. Genius scorns all rules, and 
yet the critic judges by rule. What would 
the critics have thought of Shakspeare, 
who violated all their sacred canons ? 
What did they think of Dryden and Pope ? 
What were their judgments on my late 
friend — I call him my friend — the author 
of Tristram Shandy ?" 

Warden. — " I have never read the work 
"to which you allude ; but from what I have 
heard, it is by no means creditable to a 
minister of the Gospel. It is said to 
abound in low and vulgar wit, and licen- 
tious allusions and remarks. Such things 
are unbecoming in such a character." 

It is impossible to describe the effect 
which this speech produced on the mas- 



ter. He pulled off his hat, heaved a deep 
sigh, and then covered his head again ; 
spurred his horse so furiously, that the 
animal reared and plunged, and came near 
breaking the neck of his rider, who at 
last, placing himself by the side of his 
friend, and looking him mournfully in the 
face, exclaimed, " My friend, my friend, 
you have sent an arrow through my heart ! 
Oh God. that I should have heard you say 
so !" 

"What on earth is the matter.?" cried 
Warden. " I am astonished, and can 
hardly believe what I see and hear." 

" And well you may be," said the mas- 
ter ; " for of all the things you have ever 
done and said, your opinion of Sterne— of 
my friend Sterne — has hurt me most. I 
do not regard the censure — he has been 
used to that — but to hear it from you — 
from my favourite pupil, my bosom friend, 
the man whose heart and mind I have 
trained, and in whom I have so justly glo- 
ried ! But there is one consolation — you 
have not read Tristram Shandy, and you 
have formed yo.ur judgement from the opin- 
ions and the miserable canting of the crit- 
ics. The first thing I shall do on our re- 
turn will be to put Sterne into your hands ; 
and I know you will give him a fair and a 
patient hearing. He was witty ; he did- 
lash vice with an unsparing hand ; boldly 
unmask the hypocrite, and call things by 
their proper names. But cannot a clergy- 
man be pleasant, and smile oftener than 
frown ? His heart was gentle and as 
kind as melting charity ; his wit sparkling ; 
his humour boundless and inimitable ; his 
taste pure ; his sentiments tender, just, 
and fearless ; and his mind bright as yon 
glowing sun. Oh, glorious and immortal 
Sterne !" 

Here the master, overcome with emo- 
tion, pulled his hat over his eyes, spurred 
up his horse, and began to whistle snatch- 
es of a sad and pathetic air, when a sud- 
den turn of the road brought him in con- 
tact with a company of soldiers. 



CHAPTER LIX. 

"Haply some hapless man hath conscience, 
And for his conscience lives in beggary." 

Marlowe. 

" Well-bred gentlemen recognize and 
trust each other whenever and wherever 
they meet. The man of truth, honour, and 
cultivated sensibilities is never long a stran- 
ger to those of his kind when accident 
throws him with them, and, in fact, he is 
known as soon as he is seen. Thus it 
was with Warden, the commander of the 
soldiers, and myself, though perhaps I 
should let another say it. I was, I hope, 
and had always striven to be, a Christian 
gentleman ; my young friend, Henry War- 
den, was undoubtedly one in its noblest 



ALAMANCE. 



145 



sense, and such proved to be our new ; 
companion, the officer alluded to, and in 
whom I was glad to find and make the 
acquaintance of Captain Alfred Moore, a 
patriot partisan-leader of note, the de- 
scendant of an ancient and honourable 
family, and worthy himself to be the 
founder of an illustrious house. I found 
him to be what all leaders, civil and mili- 
tary, ought to be, a thorough scholar and 
well-read man ; and his manners and con- 
versation fully sustained the character he 
has borne in the annals of the state." 

Thus speak the master's notes as he be- 
gins to sketch another portrait, and to 
illustrate it by a variety of anecdotes and 
incidents, which at any time and in any 
place would be interesting. The course 
of our narrative, compels us, however, to 
skip the pages devoted to Captain Moore, 
and to follow the thread of the "story. 
Moore and his soldiers were in quest of 
forage, and as he and the Alamancers 
were going in the same direction, they 
travelled together for some time, when 
they overtook an old Scotchman on the 
road. They were among a Tory people, 
and only the age and humble condition of 
the old man shielded him from being harsh- 
ly questioned. He was plainly dressed 
and poorly mounted on a small, lean horse 
of a peculiar species, known as " Sand- 
trotters," and which manifested little sym- 
pathy with the aspirations of the rider, who 
maintained a proud reserve and courtly 
air. His manner, contrasted with his situ- 
ation and dress, struck all the company as 
somewhat ludicrous ; but the old man was 
with gentlemen, and thus protected from 
the rude jests of the soldiers. He was 
still suspected, however, of being a Tory ; 
and though no injury was offered to his 
person, nor any insult to his feelings, he 
was ordered by Captain Moore to lead him 
and" his men to some place where they 
could be supplied with what they needed. 
The aged Scotchman bowed slightly his 
stately form, saying he was ready to assist 
the patriots to the utmost of his ability. 
" Though not in the field against him," he 
continued, " I am no friend to the usurper 
on the British throne, nor to any of his 
race. True, I am one of a suspected race 
and in a suspected country ; but if these 
locks had not been whitened, and these 
arms stiffened by the blight of age, there 
would have been in all the American army 
no soldier more zealous than I." 

These words seemed fair enough ; they 
came from an honest-looking face and 
were uttered with apparent sincerity of 
manner, but still the conduct of the Scotch- 
man was very singular. He was in the 
midst of a fertile and plentiful country, 
and smiling fields, well-stored barns, and 
neat farm-houses were on every side. 
These were regarded with wistful eyes by 



the soldiers ; but as their guide passed 
them by in silence, they followed on won- 
dering what, country could be more abun- 
dant. All became impatient at last ; but 
still they rode on, waiting for a signal from 
the venerable Scotchman, who pressed 
forward, looking neither to the right hand 
nor to the left at the handsome residences 
and the wilderness of luxuriant grain that 
waved on the sides of the road. At last, 
in a poor neighbourhood, and opposite to a 
shabby residence in a small field of stunted 
corn, the old gentleman halted, and waving 
his hand as if he were dispensing the 
bounties of a prince, " There, captain," 
said he, " is a plantation, the contents of 
whose barns, cribs, larders, and fields are 
at your service." The brow of Moore 
darkened, and, turning fiercely to the 
Scotchman, he said, sternly, "Old man, I 
am not to be mocked with impunity. Tell 
me instantly why you have thus trifled 
with me in bringing me from well-stored 
farms to this miserable and wretched abode 
of poverty. Think you that I would take 
the means of one so poor ?" 

" The places we have passed," answered 
the old man, straightening himself upon 
his horse, "belong to other men. and 1 
have no right to dispose of their harvests, 
abundant as they are. This is my land — 
these are my fields and houses, and their 
scant bounty I freely offer you." 

Unbidden tears instantly bedewed the 
manly cheeks of the gallant officer, and, 
seizing the old man's hand, he exclaimed, 
" Sir, your humble garb has deceived me. 
You appear to be indeed poor, and your 
garments bespeak not the man of rank ; 
but in your breast, humble as your condi- 
tion seems, there glows the royal soul of a 
gentleman ! God forbid that I should touch 
aught of yours except, in friendship, this 
honest and honoured hand !" 

The eyes of the .Alamancers were also 
moist, and even the rough soldiers shared 
the generous emotion of their leader, 
when Warden exclaimed to the Scotch- 
man, "Your conduct has betrayed you; 
you are Duncan Stuart!" 

" I have no reason to be ashamed of my 
name," replied the old man, " though it 
once shone more brightly than it now does, 
and those to whom it belongs have all seen 
better days. I am Duncan Stuart, and 
now, permit me to ask, what am I to 
you ■?". 

"A friend, I hope," said Warden, "for 
certainly I am a sincere one to you. I 
have come from a distant country express- 
ly to see you, and I bring good tidings." 

" I am too old to be surprised at any 
thing," said Stuart, " and yet your words 
puzzle me. The present, however, is not 
a proper time to unriddle the mystery ; for 
if you are all as hungry as I am you will, 
just now, prefer a different sort of discus- 



148 



ALAMANCE. 



sion. Gentlemen and soldiers, alight, and 
Duncan Stuart will endeavour to provide 
refreshments for all, men and horses." 

The Alamancers instantly obeyed the 
friendly summons, and Stuart pressed 
Moore also to partake of the hospitality of 
his humble board, but that active officer, 
pledging- himself to remember his aged 
friend, and wishing him a better fate, was 
too intent upon the discharge of his duties 
to tarry longer. Warden, remembering 
the villainy of Ross, and the calamities 
it had caused to Stuart, was at a loss how 
to disclose the object of his visit, until the 
blunt candour and simplicity of the master 
solved the difficulty. v He, M'Bride, at once 
informed his host of the occasion of his 
visit, and the latter heard it without ex- 
hibiting the emotion which Warden had 
feared. Rerhaps his heart was silently 
breaking within him ; perhaps fit had al- 
ready been withered, and he was now in- 
capable of excitement. He manifested 
but little feeling at what he heard, except 
that his noble form expanded and his faded 
eyes kindled with unwonted fire as he 
quietly said, " 1 shall never touch the ac- 
cursed bounty. True, I was injured by 
that Ross you mention, and am now ex- 
tremely poor ; but my pilgrimage is nearly 
finished, and I have enough to last me till 
I drop, like ripe fruit, from the tree of life. 
My tenure is already frail, and the slightest 
blast will break the fragile stem. Let the 
wealth of which you speak be given to his 
poor relations and to his wretched female 
victims ; and thus I would advise you to 
dispose of your own portion." 

" So 1 have intended," replied Warden ; 
"but I see no reason for your refusal. 
The testator has injured you — you are old, 
and, as I fear, nearly destitute. 1 shall re- 
turn with a sad heart if 1 have to leave 
such an honest man in distress." 

"If such were the feelings of the few 
honest men who are prosperous," answer- 
ed Stuart, "how miserable they would be, 
did they only know what a vast propor- 
tion of their kind — of the just, I mean — 
are pining with hopeless penury and want ! 
The ways of Providence here are inscru- 
table, and it is not for us to complain. Be- 
hold me, the son of a long line of kings, 
and, I trust, an honest man, living here in 
a rude hut, supporting myself in my old 
age with the labour of my own hands, an 
exile upon a foreign soil, and an ocean be- 
tween ine and the graves of my kindred. 
Look at this picture, and theu see the 
Guelphs, an upstart race, the heirs of petty 
German princes, lording it in the regal 
palaces of the mighty kindgom of Britain, 
and ruling with a rod of iron my own be- 
loved Scotland — Scotland, where at the i 
very name of Stuart every gallant and no-' 
ble heart thrills with emotion! But 'the 
race is not to the swift, nor the battle to 



the strong, nor riches to men of under- 
standing; but time and chance happeneth, 
to them all.' Still, 1 may hope that with 
me will expire the curse that follows to 
the third and fourth generations the de- 
scendants of them that do evil. Some of 
my kindred had their faults, but their de- 
scendants have expiated them ; and with 
my sons — brave and noble lads^— 1 hope a 
better fortune will commence." 



CHAPTER LX. 

Duncan Stuart manifested some curi- 
osity to hear the story of Ross ; and the 
master, whose reading propensities need- 
ed but. a slight touch of the spur, was soon 
midway in the history alluded to. To the 
surprise of the Alamancers, their host ex- 
hibited little emotion at what he heard, 
and Warden was emboldened to ask the 
story of Louise. 

" It's a long and tedious tale," said the 
old man. " and as it has been written', and 
Mr. M'Bride seems to be fond of such 
things, the manuscript is his. Here it is, 
and you can both read it at your leisure." 

" Have you ever heard of the lady since 
she left you V inquired the master. 

" Only by rumour," answered Stuart, ^of 
which many strange ones have reached 
me. That cottage, of which Ross speaks, 
is, I suppose, the haunted house near the 
river of which I have often heard, and in 
regard to which the superstitious Scotch, 
my countrymen, circulate and believe the 
most incredible and astounding stories. 
It is said to be just such a place as the 
fairies would love. The little palace is 
embosomed among huge old cypress-trees, 
and surrounded by a wilderness of flowers 
of every hue and from every clime, and 
adorned inside with the most costly and 
elegant furniture. It sits in a small, soli- 
tary, and secluded vale, just on the riv«»r 
bank, and is overhung by huge mossy rocks 
and jutting precipices. 1 believe, from 
what I have heard, I could find the place, 
for, I doubt not, it is in a certain unsettled 
part of the country, through which I passed 
years ago; but as Louise has not been in 
want,. I care not to see her. Poor thing, 
how dearly has she paid for her folly ! 
When you read my manuscript you will 
weep floods of tears for the fair mad muse 
of the woods, whose plaintive songs echo 
along the unfrequented vales like airs from 
a spirit land, and the occasional sight of 
whom, in her fantastic robes of royalty, 
with a crown of evergreens on her head 
and a flowering sceptre in her hand, has 
alarmed the timid fisherman and belated 
traveller." 

" I must see her," was the silent resolrs 
of the master and of his former scholar; 
and as they sat pondering on her probabhr 



' 



ALAMANCE. 



147 



history and destiny, a new guest arrived. 
He was a small, spare man, with a deeply- 
embrowned skiri, and showed, by 'the brev- 
ity of" his sentences and his military ?.ir, 
that he must have been a soldier and an 
officer. As it was late in the evening, the 
stranger, in tew and simple words, asked 
permission to spend the night where he 
was : a request which greatly embarrassed 
old Duncan Stuart, for his means were not 
equal to his princely desires. Observing 
his anxiety, Warden said, " Let the stranger 
stay. I am used to the life- of a soldier, 
and should prefer the floor to a bed." 

"And so would I," said the new-comer, 
" and I shall not be choice about my diet. 
I know you're poor, old gentleman, and I 
know your hospitable wishes. Fear noth- 
ing, for 1 had rather take any fare with 
you than travel farther. I will now look 
to my horse, and then you will see how 1 
can make myself at home." 

" My servant shall attend to your horse," 
said Warden. 

" I had rather do it myself," replied the 
stranger ; and he and Stuart left the house. 
The curiosity of Warden and the master 
was excited, and they had a prodigious 
desire to know the stranger's name; but 
while they were still consulting about the 
proper mode of ascertaining what they 
wished to learn, the person spoken of came 
in. " What has become of Louise ?•' asked 
he, turning to Stuart. 

" I have no right," answered Stuart, 
" to ask your name, stranger ; but your 
question rather surprises me. Still I have 
no desire to keep secret what I know 
.about the poor girl." Hereupon the old 
man related what he had already told to 
the Alamancers, and the master soon after- 
wards read over the history of Ross* 

" The villain ! I knew he was such," 
exclaimed the stranger; "but the register, 
where is that V 

" I have purposely kept it sealed till 
now," said the master, " and I will now 
open it."" 

"Do, if you please," replied the new- 
guest, " and let us see how many worthy 
men sought to make happy a woman who 
chose a scoundrel." 

"Upon my soul," cried the master, 
u this must be a fiction. It is not possible 
that she could have turned off so many 
illustrious 'suitors. See what a list is 
here." 

"The list's a true one," said the stranger, 
" for I see my own name and those of 
several of my friends upon it. We were 
all her suitors." 

" May I ask you which is your name V 
enquired the master. 

" It is the first," replied the stranger. 

" What !" exclaimed Warden, " is it pos- 
eible I see before me that gallant leader 
and glorious patriot, Francis Marion ! Yes, 



I know yqu are Marion, and God be 
praised for the hour that brought us to- 
gether!" All the company, except the 
South Carolinian, were fairly electrified 
with pleasure, and the noon of the night 
was passed before any eye was closed in 
sleep. The master and Stuart did, at last, 
sink to rest in the arms of Morpheus, but 
the sun of the next day found Marion and 
Warden still awake and talking. Each 
learned many curious incidents from the 
other, and their relative histories were 
spiced with profound observations upon 
the course of things. The partisan leader 
having learned enough of Louise, was, 
early the next day, on the road for South 
Carolina, and the Alamancers at the same 
time set out to look for the haunted glen. 
They were soon in a wild, unsettled 
country, and their farther progress along 
the river bank impeded by a thick under- 
growth of bushes, and by luxuriant vines. 
" If you will hold my horse, I will see 
how far this thicket extends," said War- 
den to the master; and, dismounting, he 
soon disappeared in the woods. Half an 
hour passed away, and M'Bride and Ben 
became extremely uneasy. During the 
next half hour they kept up a continued 
shout, and, at last, the master, leaving the 
horses with them, went himself into the 
woods, searching them for miles around. 
The sun was just setting when he re- 
turned to the servant ; and now, securing 
their horses to trees, both men beat 
through the woods during the whole of 
the night, shouting and hallooing as they 
went. They still continued their search 
on the following day, until, worn down 
with fatigue and hunger, they were com- 
pelled to discontinue their labor of love. 
Exhausted and frantic with grief, they 
found their way back to Stuart's, where 
they took a hasty meal, provided them- 
selves with provision for several days, 
and again, and in the night, set out to re- 
commence the search. Duncan Stuart, 
exhibiting more emotion than the master 
had seen him display before, insisted on 
being permitted to accompany the Ala- 
mancers, and through him the whole 
neighbourhood was set in motion. Day 
after day, and night after night, the forest 
was examined, till, at last, one of the par- 
ties found a hat upon the margin of 'the 
river. The master knew it at once, and 
the melancholy conclusion that Warden 
was drowned or murdered was forced 
upon the minds of all. " So, alas ! I 
knew it would be," thought the master, 
and he and Ben commenced their melan- 
choly journey to Alamance. The master's 
heart was sad enough in its own reflec- 
tions ; but when he heard old Ben, as he 
often did, break into fits of hysterical 
weeping and lamentations, and noticed 
the led horse and empty saddle, he was 



148 



ALAMANCE. 



overpowered with emotion, and the stern 
philosopher was lost in the helpless man 
of grief. All the other misfortunes of his 
life now seemed light as air, and, with a 
smothering sensation, he 'found that his 
theory had proved true. He had cherished 
a secret hope-that he might yet be de- 
ceived ; but, alas ! that hope was gone 
forever. What a curse, thought he, is 
one evil man ! how does his villainy- 
entail wretchedness on whole families 
and generations ! This man Ross was 
born for a scourge, and how fatally has 
he fulfilled his mission ! Oh, would to 
God my reasoning had been false ! Would 
to God it had been proved so by the loss 
of my own life! Cursed forever be the 
name of Ross and Stuart ! Next rushed 
upon him the memory of Edith and of his 
own unhappy fate, in being the bearer 
of such mournful tidings. Long did he 
ponder as to the best means of communi- 
cating the sad intelligence to Edith, and, 
at last, resolved to go first to the parents 
of the deceased. He was aware that the 
bearer of bad news had a losing task, but 
he made an effort to brace himself for a 
proper discharge of his duty, and intended 
gently, and by degrees, to perform it. 
But then there were the led horse and 
empty saddle — how eloquently would they 
tell the tale of disaster in advance of the 
master! The horse, after a consideration, 
was left in the woods, and M-Bride and 
Ben approached the Warden mansion. 
Ail about it, to the master's eyes, wore 
an air of peace, of serenity, and content- 
ment he had never observed before; and 
even unconscious nature seemed to be 
smiling with unwonted beauty. JBen, pre- 
serving a sad and gloomy silence, walked 
moodily off to the kitchen ; and the mas- 
ter, with a throbbing hetut, and wishing 
he never had been born, entered the hall. 
To his surprise, he found there the wife 
of Henry Warden, who, with her mother- 
in-law, were the only persons that met 
him. They saw the shadow on his brow 
— the devoted wife and the tender mother 
knew, intuitively, what had happened, and 
they seemed afraid to ask a question. 
How beautiful did Edith then seem to the 
master! how his heart emot© him as he 
looked on her sweet and innocent face, 
all beaming with love and goodness! He 
turned from her, and she, at last, in falter- 
ing, tremulous accents, pronounced the 
name of her husband. Despite all his 
philosophy, and all his previous prepara- 
tion, the master was as much confounded 
as if a mine had suddenly exploded under 
his feet; and, losing all self-possession, 
exclaimed, "He is gone! Oh God, he's 
lost forever!" A wild scream burst 
through the hall, and the bewildered 
master, rushing first to assist the fainting 
wife, gathered in his arms Henry Warden, 



on whose breast his wife was weeping and 
laughing by turns! 

" God and his angels preserve us !" cried 
the master;-" am 1 in tiia land of spirits?" 

" You've been in Dreamland all your 
life, my friend,"- answered his ancient stu- 
dent, " and it is my purpose to awake you.'" 

" Such scenes might well awake the 
dead," said the master, " but they cony 
found the living. Tell me in one minute 
how you came here, or my brain will 
crack." 

" Know, then, in one minute," replied 
Warden, " that when I left you in the 
woods, on Clarendon river, I saw a strange 
vision which avoided me. I at once gave 
chase, and the singular creature who 
avoided me darted into a cave. I followed. 
This cave was an artificial one, and its 
entrance was so formed that you would 
hardly observe it did you not suspect its 
existence. You passed over my head 
several times ; and in the night, emerging 
at another door with my new acquaint- 
ance, she carried me to the fairy palace — 
a sweet, romantic place, fit for the resi- 
dence of the queen of the fairies. Here 
my wild companion told me her story, and 
well will it become your notes. It was a 
history of facts more startling and more 
intensely interesting than the wildest fic- 
tions in prose or verse, and at a more 
convenient time" you shall hear it all. 
Well, while at the Glen an idea struck me, 
and as every thing seemed to be there in 
abundance, I obtained a hat, borrowed a 
horse, and secretly passing down the river, 
left, my own hat on the bank, and hurried 
off to get here before you. My conscience 
upbraided me for playing you such a trick, 
but I wished to cure you of your malady. 
I knew, when we left home, you expected 
an accident to befall me. I knew your at- 
tachment to your theory, and 1 thought 
that the only way to make you abandon it 
was to let you see it carried out. Did you 
not say to j'ourself, over and over again, 
as you returned, that you had secretly 
hoped you were wrong 1 Did you not be- 
gin to muiisur against Heaven for doing 
what you h.&& predicted ought to be done ? 
In a w©rsij did you not conclude that God 
wasuEjii&il li© is not. His Providence 
is still antes lis, protecting the innocent, 
and guiding the good to their own happi- 
ness, for not a sparrow falls to*the ground 
without his knowledge. Now look at this 
face upon my shoulders : do you not see 
in thai face a hope inspired by Heaven 
itselfr 

The master glancing at the swimming 
eyes of Edith, in each of which-shone a 
promise fairer and sweeter than the bough 
seen by Noah, replied, " I give it up. I 
think, however, you might have used a 
more gentle remedy, for salvation is noth- 
ing to the pangs 1 have endured; and I 



ALAMANCE. 



149 



have grown ten years older by the regi- 
men." 

" And fifty wiser," rejoined Warden. 

"And have become .fifty times happier, 
I hope," said Edith, with a smile that took 
off twice ten years from the master's 
heart. 

" Violent maladies require violent rem- 
edies, jou know," continued Warden; and 
here the conversation was interrupted by 
Ben, who, having got drunk in one minute 
after he heard of his young master's safe- 
ty, now came rushing into the hall, fol- 
lowed by a troop of servants, and kicking 
up such a fuss as was never before heard 
•but in Bedlam. 



CHAPTER LXI, 

AND THE LAST. 

"When the author, or, rather, editor of 
these memoirs, was a boy, he went to 
school at Alamance. There then lived in 
in that community a bland old gentle- 
man, somewhat short, in stature, and al- 
ways dressed in knee-pants and buckles. 
His hair, which was as white as cotton, 
and which was thinly sprinkled over his 
temples, was always nicely combed and 
smoothed, and never so arranged as to 
conceal the bald patch upon the crown of 
his head. The curve of his lip, and a very 
slight and peculiar turn of the nose indi- 
cated a disposition somewhat satirical, but 
you soon forgot the scarcely-perceptible 
acidity of his features when you heard the 
mellow tones of his deep-bass voice, and 
beheld the mild twinkle of his kind, gray 
eye. Fond of locomotion, yet extremely 
averse to exercise on horseback, the old 
gentleman could be seen almost every day 
of ihe week, except on the Sabbath, with 
his staff in his hand and a little dog behind 
him, wending his way through the fields 
and along the shortest by-paths that led 
from house to house at Alamance. He 
was generally met by the children some 
distance from the house, and he invariably 
addressed every member of the family by- 
his or her Christian name, and never was 
known to say " Mr." or " Mrs." to any one. 
With boyish curiosity, the editor observed 
minutely all his habits ; noticed that he 
conversed much more freely after taking 
his "grog" (by which name he always 
called his dram), and that it was his inva- 
riable custom \o sit with one leg crossed 
over the other, and, when he was not going 
to tarry long, with his hands, and some- 
times his chin, resting on the head of his 
stick. Having been a careful observer of 
men and things, he was a living chronicler 
of the past, and was particularly pleased 
when the young, as they often did. would 
cluster round him and ask him questions 
concerning the events of by-gone times. 



On such occasions he was entertaining, 
instructive, and pathetic, and would talk, 
if not interrupted, and if occasionally re- 
freshed with a sip of grog, the livelong 
night. He was universally respected by 
the old, revered by the young, and es- 
teemed by all as an oracle of wisdom and 
truth. He had, however, his pets and 
favorites, and among them was our hum- 
ble self, whom he often dandled on his 
knee and took With him in his rambles 
over the fields, answering with equal sim- 
plicity and hearing our multitudinous ques- 
tions about the various operations of Na- 
ture, and filling our youthful mind with 
admiration and amazement, as well at the 
immense stores of knowledge he had gar- 
nered up, as at his astonishing acuteness 
and sagacity. This was Hector M'Bride, 
the former master of the old field school, 
and then " in the winter of his days." He 
had a residence in the mountains, his old 
friends, Abraham Neal and his wife, hav- 
ing left the world together, and bequeath- 
ing to him all their estate. At this mount- 
ain residence he spent part of every sum- 
mer in study and meditation, and, it may 
have been, in composition also, for he was 
a most voluminous writer. In the course 
of time, the editor left Alamance, and was 
advancing on towards man's estate, when 
the following note, sent by express, was 
put into his hands : 

" Mountain Home, June 4, 18 — . 
"Dear Sir — I am requested by our mutual 
friend, Hector M'Bride, to desire your immedi- 
ate presence here. The good old gentleman i3 
failing rapidly in health and strengih, and can- 
not, I greatly fear, long survive. Come' imme- 
diately. 

" It» haste, yours truly, 

" Henry Warden." 

We hurried off as fast as a swift horse 
could carry us, and was soon by the bed- % 
side of the master, and found him sur- 
rounded by his friends — Henry Warden, 
Donald M'Leod, their wives and children, 
George Warden, Ben Rust, an old slave 
named Bfc.n, and a huge gentleman known 
as " Uncle Corny," were there. His man- 
ner was cheerful but sedate, and his con- 
versation partook of that gravity becoming* 
his character and his situation. He could 
not, he said, be indifferent to the pangs of 
death and the doubts that hung over the 
grave ; still, he had a rational and abiding 
hope, and looked with Christian fortitude 
on the deepening shadows of 'that valley 
through which all have to pass. " Of all 
things." he was wont to say, "the idea of 
annihilation is the most awful that can be 
presented to a living soul, and it is terrible 
to think of ceasing to exist, even for a mo- 
ment." With a severe scrutiny, he re- 
vised his whole life, and one day said to us 
all, " My manner of life, from my youth 



150 



ALAMANCE. 



up, is known to yon all. I cannot recol- 
lect that I have ever coveted any one!s 
goods ; oppressed the poor, the widow, or 
the orphan; done injustice between man 
and man, been awed by the rich and povv- 
• srful to pervert judgment, or spurned from 
me the friendless wretch. In all cases I 
have looked to the man and his cause, and 
not to his circumstances or his influence, 
and have ever sided with him whom I truly 
believed was in the right. I have been de- 
voted to liberty and the emancipation of 
my race ; I have constantly had before my 
eyes the fear of God, and have endeavoured 
to keep his statutes. I will not deny that 
I shrink from the horrors of the grave ; I 
will not deny that I feel some apprehen- 
sions as I go to take my stand at the dread 
tribunal, where the secrets of all hearts 
are known. But we must all die ; it is a 
debt we contract the moment we enter 
upon existence. ' All flesh is grass, and 
all the goodliness thereof is as the flower 
of the field,' yet to all inanimate nature the 
spring returns, and surely man, the glory 
of the earth, shall yet be renewed in per- 
petual youth. I trust in the mercy of 
God ; such is the staff of my hope as I 
pass through the dark valley of the shadow 
of death." 

With such discourse he passed the time, 
his body sinking daily, and his mind seem- 
ing to grow brighter, calmer, and steadier. 
On one occasion, desiring to be alone wilh 
us, he took us by the hand and said, " My 
young friend, I' am going to show you how 
much you have won upon my affection. 
Here is a key that unlocks a square hair 
trunk which you will find in my study, in 
the opposite chamber. That trunk and its 
contents are yours, with this injunction : 
You are not to open it till after my death, 
and then you are to make such a discreet 
use of what you find as will redound most 
to the public good and the honour of my 
memory. A great charge is confided to 
you — act worthy of my confidence." 

We expressed, in proper terms, our 
sense of the obligations conferred, and 
went out to take a stroll. In a niche, a 
shady niche, in the side of a mountain, we 
had often heard the innocent prattle of 
children, and had noticed them every 
morning strewing flowers upon a green 
hillock there that was covered over with 
ivy and violets. We had als,o seen Henry 
Warden and his lady going often to this 
place, where, from their manners, their 
conversation seemed to be of a sad and 
affecting character. Gur curiosity had 
been awakened, and going to the place we 
saw, on a maple that stood at one end of 
the little knoll, and in letters that had 
been nearly effaced by time, the simple 
words, " Lucy Neal." We were musing 
on what we saw, observing that the alcove 
had once been trimmed and cultivated, but 



that its seats were now crumbling away, 
its paths choked up with grass, and its 
beds overgsown with weeds and wild flow- 
ers, when Henry Warden accosted us. Ha 
gave us a brief sketch of the life and death 
of Lucy Neal, and called our atlention to 
the fact, that every thing about her rustic 
bower was still left exactly as it was when 
she died, excepting only the changes pro- 
duced by Nature herself. About this 'time, 
the Rev. Dr. Caldwell arrived in the mount- 
ains, and the master seemed much edified 
by his discourse, and got him, in presence 
of us all, to read his will. He left a con- 
siderable sum of money to Alamance 
church, for the purpose of buying a library, 
and with the will was a catalogue of the 
books to be purchased ; there were a num- 
ber of charitable bequests to the poor, 
and particularly to children whose parents 
were not able to give them an education. 
The new teacher was also remembered ; 
for to him was left his classics, and to 
every Alamancer he bequeathed some me- 
mento. To his friends Rust, Caldwell, and 
Uncle Corny, he left liberal legacies : but 
the bulk of his property was settled on the 
children of Warden and M'Leod, leaving 
to a little daughter of the former, named 
Lucy, his mountain estate, and to her fa- 
ther the balance of his books. His strength 
now failed rapidly, but he still was fond 
of company, and was particularly gratified 
by the affection of the .children, whom he 
kept constantly about him. One day he 
had himself turned with his face to the 
wall, and, while holding the hand of a little 
boy who sat on the bed, the latter uttered 
a playful exclamation about the coldness 
of his skin, and we found the master was 
no more. According to his request, we 
buried him at the foot of a mountain, carv- 
ing his name on a huge overhanging rock, 
and leaving him with that mighty hill for 
his monument, where none but the feet of 
the free shall ever tread upon his grave, 
and where, as he said, he should rise by 
the side of the pure spirit, of Lucy on the 
morning of the resurrection. 

Leaving his friends to lament his death 
and pay proper honours to his memory, 
we hurried home and impatiently awaited 
the arrival of the trunk. It came at last, 
and, eagerly unlocking it, we found it 
crammed with the master's manuscripts, 
and our eyes sparkled with pleasure as 
they ran over the various titles of the rare 
collection. There were essays on various 
subjects ; a large bundle of maxims, bon- 
mots and pithy sayings ; a book of table- 
talk ; " The Log- Book of a Lady's Whims 
during One Month of her Earthly Voyage;" 
a great number of sonnets, epigrams, songs 
and poems, amorous, didactic, and satiri- 
cal ; a curious work called " The Rise and 
Progress of a Politician," another entitled 
" The Universal Vanities of Men," and a 



ALAMANCE. 



151 



production headed, " A Dissertation on the 
History of Woman, Natural, Moral, and 
Political, with an Attempt to elucidate the 
Mysteries of her Heart, and to account 
for and reconcile the Inconsistencies of 
her Character." But that which we were 
most delighted to find was a large and 
ponderous mass of papers carefully writ- 
ten and stitched together, and forming 
several volumes. These were labeled, 
"Notes, taken on the Wayside of Life, by 
Hector M'Bride, Schoolmaster," and to 
them was, pinned a card, wiih the sen- 
tence, " Await the proper time." For long 
months our leisure time and our hours of 
rest were consumed in poring over them, 
for they contain, in a style chaste and ele- 
gant, the narrative of many surprising ad-_ 



ventures, family histories, and amusing 
incidents. For years— long, long years, 
carefully have we guarded the rich treas 
ures confided to our keeping, and drawing 
from them, instruction and amusement in 
seasons of trial and of sickness. Wo 
have believed that the "proper time," al- 
luded to by the master, has come at last ; 
and, so thinking, we now send forth to the 
world a selection from his Notes. As to 
the taste displayed in arranging, and the 
ability in revising these memoirs, the 
reader must decide ; of our motives we 
must be permitted to be ourself the judge, 
and to say that, with these, we are so well 
satisfied, we shall little reck of the hoarse 
croak of the literary vultures who feed 
upon the offal of authors. 



ra» ENO 




A new Classified and Descriptive Catalogue of Harper & Bkothers' Publications has jia» 
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*,• Copies of this Catalogue may be obtained, free of expense, by application to the Pub* 
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- 



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